As abraham had to with isaac,
     I must sacrifice my solitude
     for I carry him like a son, but
     find my Self taken, blinded and bound,
     reclining on fire, on an altar
     I have built myself, and thick around
     it rushes wind, lithe whispering of
     angels echoing my petitions,
     that I might be satisfied never
     being deified, but more content
     remaining nameless, my soul burning
     like a solstice, my spirit raising
     and setting myself up like summer’s
     dying sun, a misery of faith
     claiming responsibility when
     my fate finally blows up and what
     I make is eclipsed by my being
     noticed by someone for something else,
     when, in that moment devils cannot
     touch, god lifts me from my dusk and smiles.