Here the fruit tree flexes its brittle limbs
Poised in its ripeness for luscious works
Too long are regulations born of whims
Still magistracy has its quirks
Four walls closing in; this heat of hopelessness
Gruesome visions grind my gut
To stop; and heaven in its yolklessness
Lets not me in, the way is shut.
My anger hangs in hate, my cry of anguish
Unanswered, echoes ‘gainst the floor
And no confession flooding can extinguish
Taunting flames of evermore.
Pallid, stoppered, pawn of Father’s hate
The wretch is grieving in the grime
Pious, penitent, too late,
Consigned to suckle burning wine
Till through the cracked and flaking pages
The light of heaven shines at last
The foully spoiled words of ages
Amended, now the storm is past.