Blood Poem by Jonathan Andrews

Close,
Tender,
You hold your claim.
Billeted rights, evident to all,
Entitle succor:
Support, my righteous tax of gratitude.
Seek not merit,
Only offer the expected tithe.
Hush now.
Give now.
When comes the season of anguish,
Broken, I genuflect.
And your decree? Affliction is the karmic price.
Wounds stigmata? Anathema, more like.
Question not.
Reason not.
Only covet the poisoned fruit of worth--
Ignorance is strength.
Now demand you my indulgence
While you cry for a pound of flesh,
And I, bespelled, cannot but stray into ravenous fangs.
Now extracting savage toll
While mocking insipid affections,
You, cackling, cast off my ravaged pride once more
To let it, worthless, lie in its
Adoréd,
Despiséd
Blood