The light in me cannot be seen through yarn-worked lace.
It has no frills, it never flickers, it creates no shadow boxers
on white stucco walls. No mesmeric dancers shimmer
with that dark sultry hip shaking shimmy.
My light is borne of black tallow from dead dreams
and a wick of willow bark, it burns green and dark.
It depresses the candour of daylight
decries the sound of angel song from ebullient choristers
and defeats all vestige of that trifle called life
The light in me cannot be shared or given like a gift
It has a gravity that pulls in prey. Its incandescence
heated with each new days conquest of the failed.
It feeds at the trough of one’s despair.