"I didn't ask to be born"

From this soul's dregs

to the Throne's legs

my cry rocks and wrecks

the Rock or thought I He shrieks:

I didn't choose to be born!

Nay, did I want to be torn

in to sheets by Codes

and Grace that holds

me like a freshly baked wound

and be tamed like a bloodlust hound.

The agonies of Smoke I have

from the Flames' fire and altar's hive

I asked not to receive

and You become bereaved

though for a time outside Time

and dance and mourn

for that Nietzschean Crime.

My hand writ not all the Poems–

of dirges and epics, nor odes

of silver and gold flattened–

as that idol calf fattened–

now owning faces and emblems

metals for markets, Coin for tombs forlorn.

But, in these fingers united

as the fist I am: Pointed,

a Wisp of gentle Thunder

burnt out the flaming bush of my anger

coaxed my whining moments and said:

Remember. Privileges are given.

Gifts bestowed.

This life you owed

is a staff I use to goad

you from the Loss stolen from Old

and restore as many, whom I always behold.

You are not a scratch,

but a Draft, whence Scrolls will unfold.

Thence, I yawned. And slept.

And pawned myself

not to worthless wars of pictures and words

but to the battle won by Life,

whence the Warrior is Himself the Crux and Sword.

*photo credits. Not an IP of the author.