Always at night when I refuse to pray
my bed becomes a witness stand, scaffold
rising in distant dark, no hope for stay
of execution as psyche’s tenfold
chaotic chorus—prosecutor, judge
and jury—chant confused accusations
of crimes carved on my soul. God holds a grudge
against me! I cry. Still, recitation
of my offenses flows like volcanic
lava through my room’s desperate abyss.
A frail ghost steps forth to touch my frantic
face with icy fingers, leans in to kiss
cracking lips. Refusing a final excuse,
demons drag me to my laughing hangman’s noose.
Roger Armbrust
March 16, 2010
