Obsession

I can see you,

in the depths of toil,

in the life of a seed,

I see you born anew.

Take my mangled hand; and with obsessive thrill,

a crippled visage of what was once human will.

Blind to love, not a care for hate,

numbing cold becomes my telling brand.

Alone now do I sit,

thy covetous image comes calling,

screeching my name in ecstatic horror,

living my failing, too painful to admit.

Begone from my soul's freezing,

what my blood would give,

to have what my flesh does crave;

a burning of disease, a break of breathing.

Your shadow haunts my steps,

it becomes sinful to rest,

my blood of dust and sinew of ash,

stain the streets of shining gold,

and taint the painting of being.

Too long to know,

too soon to forget,

perhaps all I need is the easing of death.