Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.

(My skin is black upon me, and my bones are
burned with heat.)

This is a time when lethargy conceals,
covering my resignation, shaking the glass
in my hand.  I feel confined; this
consigns me to a hell I saw in a bible once.
I lack substance, leaning into flames that
flare higher than I, substituting heat
for marrow.  This tall and icy glass is
not enough to douse the fire carelessness
caused.  You didn't notice the spark you
flicked (you let fall unaware), but
that spark started dark and darting
filaments of fire that race along the tunnels
of my bones, searing me.
And I'll stop this drinking - I'll not
put out my pain with Lethe; I'll
not put out my pain at all.

( to the contents page.)