After Kierkegaard
He draws the blood out of my limbs
like handkerchiefs pulled from a sleeve.
He presses the tint out of my skin.
I watch the pigment slowly leave
Like handkerchiefs pulled from a sleeve,
Deep cries are knotted in my throat.
I watch the pigment slowly leave,
a distant song, a fading note.
Deep cries are knotted in my throat
In one raised hand, he holds the knife.
A distant song, a fading note
In darkness there will be no light.
In one raised hand, he holds the knife.
There is no bush; I am the ram.
In darkness there will be no light:
Bound to this cold marble slab.
There is no bush; I am the ram.
He presses the tint out of my skin
Bound to this cold marble slab
He draws the blood out of my limbs.
