“ . . . sweeter also than honey, and the honey-comb.”
–The Nineteenth Psalm

The pale venetian blinds are hung across
The paler dying of the distant light. 
And at the furthest cusp of final loss, 
He grinds his teeth in desiccated might. 

His final day descends towards its close, 
Its thwarted minutes scream at him to live; 
But in that hospital, alone, he knows
There’s not a single reason to forgive. 

Thus he rejects the world and everyone
And every grace that could have come from strife. 
And twisting on his bed to see the sun
Spits out one final curse against his life. 
Implacable, he turns back towards the wall, 
And takes revenge on nothing, and on all.