The Devil is in my head, draining the light quicker
than the sun falling from my window, late afternoon.
Not even the thought of her, or the half empty wine bottle,
or the lamenting aria, can make me quiet, or feel anything.
Afternoon on a wasted day, and I wish I could sleep, sleep
until The Devil left for some other poor fucker, and I might
smile thinking of her kissing me, or delight in soft drunkenness,
or know the sweet sorrows of an aria for unrequited love.
The Devil steals all joy and light, but Jesus says I am an unworthy kind,
or all those assholes on TV who love him do, and so I put what tatters
of faith or hope in the one who loves me, even as the afternoon goes dark,
that what Shard of Eden can be found in my brokenness, comes from her touch.