Scrawny I of scuffed-up white,
Search for something, anything,
To soothe the bewailing.
Hollow chest beset with a rosette bead,
Red as the olden blood,
Glowing in gritted grime,
Gnawing me of rot-off time.
Look, Lucifer in lucid air
Glistening like a scalding tear.
In the vale of the shadow of death,
The brine is dried-up with breath.
No longer can I withstand the plight,
Lord, refresh me to hold the light.