In the somber air of the midnight hour, I held her there in the darkened room.
If you cannot use a man what good is he? Dissonant pitches in an aimless tune,

While those cries burst out, and her resonant body involuntarily shook.
Tear runs stain my shoulder as comforts of empty assurance bait a blunt-barbed hook.

What can you do?  You useless, cold clod of dirt.  
Administered band-aid patch on a mortal wound squirting.

Blood red life force; arterially wasted upon a surgical floor
Stammer what you like, ..words are worth their cost, and not half a penny more.

And yet, perhaps it is there, -in the stillness- I can find the purpose to which to appoint?
As a ballerina at her barre exercises using an anchored pine to hone balance and point.

You bastard god that runs the rats upon the churning wheel,
Until the pumps give out or your diseases push us 'neath a scalpel's slicing, surgical steel.

Making laughable the talents and efforts of the homonid's most magnificent specimens.
Dry rot and worm’s wood, even the redwood returns; recycling the designs of stars and men.

But my brethren laugh in your face, You slipped up Jove, when You offered man free will. 
Some, crazy enough.. take Your challenge, refuse to submit to those psychotic twists of Your 
sadistic thrills.

And some..fortunate enough to have love and understanding in a network of beauteous skill,
Befriend or are born to those with the bravery, the courage and the cold, steel-will,

To do as it takes, to find passage with dignity. To wash clean Your mess-soiled glove.
And with a kiss.. memory is stowed, the garden grows and Your sick conclusion is killed in the 
powers of a truest love.