Chalice

This zero of a man, so afraid of grief
and desire: I hold both in my hands like
a chalice of ashes. He thinks I make him safe:
I build structures — patterns of indulgence,
small rituals of cruelty — whatever
it takes to keep on and use up and delay.
I have my way with the powerless, and tease
and lie and thwart for the hell of it — whatever
it takes to make time pass… But I'll never
let go of my stranglehold on life.
Death in his melodramatic black robe
will have to force back and break these clutching
bony fingers, one by one, if he would
cull the husk of me, when I am done.