Self-Mythos

You are either the closest to the Christ-Mind

than any of us will ever be,

or you are consumed by the idea of martyrdom.

Collecting the timber from broken chips and bent nails

rebuilding the Cross you bear.

Gathering the Wax and Feathers

for the Sun to melt and burn again

to remind you how to fly and fall.

If you need anyone to find the pieces of you

floating down the river,

look for me walking along the banks,

washing your armour in the company of crows,

watching for your crown.

And when its gold brushes my ankle,

I will fashion it into a cup

to hold the venom dripping down your brow.

Because I know a human like you,

like me,

can only endure so much.