by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
slow ooze of cold into my flesh
skin tightens valleys cinch and mesh
in brain deprived or with too much
of what it needs to feel the rush
of fear present in evil's face
when nothing is or interlace
of patterns simple weave of time
into a kind of aimless rhyme
I search again for cause of strain
and images of fight and vain
fence built to keep out nothingness
and legs too muscular to dance
but sprint and cramp and seize lie flat
curled up on asphalt hot race track
but fingers grasp Your promised feet
and whispers from the paraclete
my eyes though screened by evil's shroud
behold Your face and hear the loud
insistent love Your voice impells
into my trembling heart that yells
above the crash of snarling maw
the monstrous evil's drooling jaw
for though my flesh is torn on earth
my self is safe the Queen gave birth
and tenderly You stroke and guard
as I continue my walk toward
the safety of Your greeting breast
where last Your bride I make my nest