Jesus, with blood-filled tears,
exiles me to my dreams.
There is no word for me to
say not seized by language.
I am quiet.

In this silence, I see a vision which
cuts out your sweaty heart.
You are fearful, cold, and plunge
into panic.
One dream after another, this replays and I
document it with memory.

Jesus, this is not sorrowful and this
is not torture. This is only me, holding
his heart under hot water.
A regime I will do often like an
eternal storm.
He will feel wounded.

Jesus, you will not answer his prayers.
Just give him a scrap not wished for
by anyone. Tease him once in awhile with
a beating heart -- otherwise scrub him with
intoxication and let him hope.


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