And I am hung in thy net.
To writhe is exhausting but involuntary.
And I am cut off by its weave
from the world that shines inward upon me.
How consoling that I am so small
compared to the joy I cannot feel.
My rhyme and my beat are both broken;
Eros a ghost in my dream;
Nature in rigid construct
and I, most precious self to me, are lost.
How will you go from me, O God, when I die?
Will you not perish in me?
Like drunks men stumble, in me,
living the gray moment of their death.
And I, most precious self to me, am lost,
A ghost before my time, holding out hands,
clad in white whispers, calling my own name.
My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?