Iron is Made When Stars Collapse
God, who through my mouth makes my chaotic cry,
who bleeds from my knuckles as I try to break
the world to shards, who makes the revelry
whose wake is fire--might finally you take
from me the freedom that has stolen all
my ease, which I have used in wantonness?
I think that you may not. The stubborn will
you've lodged with me, this passion for excess,
are your traits too, bound in the world until
your every muscle slacks with entropy.
If man, or I, should cease, a scheme fulfills.
Meanwhile, mainly error, some felicity,
and the ache to know a self as single cell
of greater self, that the universe means well.