Mission

On a dead planet with nine moons
I said,
This cannot stand.
This will never do.
He said,
Is it the constant storms?
Is it the greenless wastes where nothing ever grew?
I said no dear,
Not that, dear...
It's you.

Nine moons around my head
Nine pentagrams around my bed
Can't watch or pray
The devil away
Because,
Because,
I keep her close and my hatred fed.

The lightning flashes and strikes at last
And all this sand is turned to glass--
It cuts me
And splits me
Now I think
It may be

That there are ten of me
Or ten thousand,
Ten million,
And each with its own little coal black heart--
Never to forgive you.
Never to part.

_______

for One Shoot Sunday