Martyr...

Martyr, my Martyr left his heart
in my hand all dripping
and cold, my pound
of flesh, to have and to hold.

Blessed are you all meek and lame;
yours the final curtain, yours
the fame. I won't give you
the Earth, it's your inheritance
dear; you'll get up and walk
when I sweep you off your feet.

When the dead are raised all
your dreams will be
fulfilled. But now only
from your love springs tears. Sanctified,
this font crosses
your furrowed brow.

Blessed be each push and shove, each
pull and tear, each circular thought, each
gyre and step slouching slowly
slowly on.

Vivid pump in hand, we cannot
reverse. It's rigid this altar
of love, it's wrong
this sacrifice.

So I'll eat it up and, in jest, take
my bloody hand, and we'll
pray to change and
put to death our hate.