The Butcher Speaks

These are strangling hands

That cannot learn to caress,

But bear away breath in every stroke-

In every pass and passage of their work,

Ineptly damaging wielders of the light.

What's in that light? Compulsive, strange,

My desire to flicker it out,

Becoming the flame,

Licking it up, namelessly

Acquiring a name.

These are clumsy hands

That dare not write desire's name,

But might break down the doors of shame,

Desirelessly desiring fame-

So all the world might know my name:

He that wanted to love, and by loving

Quenched the flame.