‘Twas ever thus. A cup beside the
drunken bed while the child who
cannot cry remains unfed, remains
unclean, uncleansed of sin, betrayed
by your ugliness, rotting from within.
‘Twas ever thus. You say it again.
The excuse is your constant refrain,
your constant limp which you are
proud to show, you lean against the
crutch, you cannot let go.
And her heart is broken, I’ve watched
her fall. The bells will chime, the bells
will call. Is there some god who holds
our fate, grinds you into dust, bars the
gate, fills us with fear, fear and hate?
There are no gods I’ll tell you now,
there are no prayers, no hymns, no
vows, no mystery to unfold at the
edge of death, there is only blood
and tears, tears, and your last breath.