See Me With Your Left Hand, Father

Levy the weight of me, your son,
entered in his own misbegotten guilt,
vice-locked between parentheticals that slowly seep through the Gore-Tex
inner linings of even the
thickest yellow raincoats.  They say
idle hands do the devil’s deeds, but
cathedrals are the most motionless of the siren choir.
Undulation of ideas and false inductions seem to
syphon that last lingering sense of pride.

Take from me that which is given,
wrap it in rapture and
embalm every shade of an oil puddle,
neck deep in the pelvic bones of flightless martyrs.
Take from me my surrogate dreams;
Yggdrasil too must have burnt to embers.

Take from me my name, and show me how
hatred is sewn when crossing bridges of
ice and chicken wire, for your over-inebriated
rice cakes seem to break as easily as your brittle intentions.
Test not my grip in this mortal coil, as the hex of
entropy will ne’er reach my heart nor hand.  Let sin
endow upon me my lover, and let you flee.  Though flee
not to the love of me, your son.