Do I prefer the ink-stained fingers
to a purple-blue heart?
Little will I care to share.
Little less will I care to know.
Behind covered eyes + quickened pulse
my act never brought me close to this
Will I never look up to see God’s command?
Forever will I sit head fitted against
songs of freedom
only made from a purple-blue bruised
My hand grows nicer by the night.
Alone, sit, to this detention of heart’s desire.
‘No not yet’ St Andrew whispers.
‘No not yet despite your heart’s desire.
Trust in me, will you fellows see.’
Listens the beggar beyond belief.