The Shadow

I have seen the butcher’s shadow
Point like a finger where I live
Unguarded in my house of peace,
And I wept in fear.

I would rather sleep in desert places
Grow thin, unwanted, scorned, denied,
Bearded, strange, too dry for friendship,
Brother of bees and locusts,

Than be a sacrifice upon the altar
Built by the lust for self-destruction,
Where the smoke corrupts our breath
And prayers drip fat as the fire ascends.

Let me stand free, not chained by hate,
No bullock crowned with thorny flowers,
Brushed and sleeked by adoring eyes,
Led by the doomsday priests to a darkened room
Where the shaggy air rank with death
Hooks at my heart with an old dilemma.