For several days, I don't write at all,

then start to worry I won't write again.

Not that it matters to anyone else,

except me and the niggling voice within.

I know, time to think will quiet the voice

which fills the silence like an open wound;

for Time's a negligent god, not caring

if I pick up any of the dry bones

she casually drops as talismans

on this twilight path I long to travel.

So, I tear out my heart as sacrifice

to the twisted beast who is my other:

will it satisfy this constant hunger,

and let grace fall on me like winter rain?