The Comforter

The argument holds: 
the love of God is lonely as time 
and the lines of the world are drawn precise and clean:
nothing transcends the dark but the dark. 

A bastard spirit in a time of flux 
creates what he seeks singing, 
a fascist under the sudden skin, 
making all he meets mine and more, 
possessing obsession and no more. 

Hands every man a bold word 
shocking dirty and a little poisoned 
so to get the gift of distance 
and make in the void a voice bent 
asking who am I knowing. 

Wanders out of the skin’s tight room 
a child beginning the world again 
with eyes that mold hands into eyes 
and allowed like Jove to lust the paradox 
of appleseeds in all grave skulls. 

Sings, scars, divines, and is 
to be integral with the irony 
of a black chapel in a clean wind, 
and everything in the night 
the spark of an alien in inalienable delight.