I count the cost of
living
Barter my many corners of
existing
Christ calling on the
forsaken to forsake but
the cross of flesh was
bruised

In the twilight, I am blue mixed with
blood
In the night I am a silver swollen sadness

I sleep sound in the grace of
empty, both a hollow feel and
reign-less steering
Coarse around the edges like a
lump on a potter's wheel,
except I am folding like a landslide
slipping into myself as I crumble