Sonnet

 I will drink blood; Thy wine or, failing, choke

on such diminished sludge as yet delights

and puppeteers this brittle frame to flights

macabre - the wit of ego's vicious joke. 

I will eat bread; burnt black o'er ordure-smoke,

yet from Thy hand. Else, gluttony incites

I gnaw my flesh to quell dark appetites, 

my kith to tease the thirst my tastes awoke. 

Curst lies this sciolist of love divine

who crafts excuses to palaver grace

and vaunts the depths of his own acumen. 

What worlds might be with love that mirrored Thine?

Or deeds o'er words which serv'd t'unveil Thy face?

Let wisdom turn upon Thy mere Amen!

~

AMDG