Crux perplexed of any key,
Butt of self-horror and the world’s mocks,
Thumb-scalded, whipped from the stocks,
Stranded in thistled sour-stench wasteland,
Slapped often by my own hand,
Shouting “Crux, ave,” and “key, oh key,”
Screaming “When, what, why, you, me?”
Screech
you crows! You pompous magpies dance!
Stung by briars and gorse I’ll prance.Day and day, high day or self-harm day,
Come and go. Moon-grinned I stay.
Crux ave! A wanderer with the key?
Oh, cleansed lepers howl once free.
What if truth into my soul should blaze,
Finding nothing, only days?
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© April 2015
