Lord, my son sits in the dark and stares
Gasps at black spiders spinning doom
And with nothing in his eyes
Prays for You to bring him peace
And make him whole.
Prayer, he thinks,
Will anathemize the black armies
That do not let him die.

I see him sitting there in his room,
Motionless but lips laboring
And echolalia mumbling
Into the night

Lord my God,
They are in his room now
On the walls and on the doors
Spinning monstrously in all the dark corners
Sealing off his gasping breath
Slowly as they flog him out into the open
Naked and tear at his throat
Piece by piece flaying him
And stripping him with nails.

Lord my God
He is on his knees
Begging you to kill the brain
To throw the spear
To send the flame
To pierce to burn to murder
But not those nails that will hang him black forever.

Lord my God,
He has looked for houses to shelter him
For beds to lie upon and rest
He has walked all your streets
And clutched at all your straws
Still he prays
Lord my God
You strip him of these black nights
And make him whole
And bring him one
Out of his room and out of that night.