Epitaph

I am dead.

No glimmer of hope

to lighten this grayness.

No fires of feeling

to warm this stone.

No joy, no despair.

No pleasure, no pain.

Nothing.

Repentance is meaningless;

I feel no contrition, no guilt.

I have no plow for this fallow ground,

No chisel for this granite heart.

Impotent against stillness of spirit,

A corpse with a pulse.

Lord of Lazarus,

Clearer of crypts,

Call my heart forth,

still tangled in the wrappings of corruption.

Morningstar,

You, Who sent tongues of fire--

Breathe on dead coals and ashes,

Restore tears and tempest,

Laughter and loathing,

Passion and pain.

Put this tepid water on to boil

Until I sing.

Spirit of the Living God, fall fresh on me.