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.