Golden fingers, frankincense -
Cloying, bitter, the guilt of youth.
Confessions sweet, my soul still laden,
Metaphors lost between the pews.

They are lashed, like Christ, upon the cross,
Conscious, martyr, resin-scented,
Cheap as plastic, such to slumber,
But no, remain, awake and twisting.

A flaring cherry in the darkness,
Twist on lighter, fade and wither.
White pills on hands, six grams, then nine,
False chemical to lull my deadened limbs.

Awake, I lay, martyred and hoist by my own self,
Given, beneath the incense burner.
My hands twist idle, tools discarded,
Tracing the map of frenetic days.

And here in darkness, drowned in resin.
Drugged in pills and drunk on grapevines,
Sway me last to witting slumber,
This passage from insomnia.