Writhe

Give me life or let me die.

     Let me keep my heart to wry.

Rotten flame and stone dead hearth;

     empty grace my soul to part.

"Mind your actions" they say grave,

     "look not back at what was safe.

Healthy hands not clean in May

     for darkened ground and skies of grey."

Naught but air my lungs can breathe-

     so my heart, for once, to grieve.

No more rhyme yet one last tale:

     my sober eye lay on the Grail.