I wonder if perhaps you let me slide,
o thou my God, to such a boring, dull,
and wasteful Hell to get through my thick skull
what blind destructive movement seeks inside
me not just death, but vi’lent suicide.
The vision, clear and inescapable
disturbs, as glancing trepidation full
one cannon-blasted sees a gaping, wide
an emptiness where heart and breath should be.
“Our hearts are restless,” missing, torn to bits
and still, we think we have no need of thee.
Your cruelest mercy lovingly permits
my eyes myopic fearfully to view
the monstrous sight: my self apart from you.