Sestina

I never know what goes into my mouth;
I fill and fill and fill and yet am empty.
To rule these appetites I tie my hands
and concentrate on only what is good,
but then I find myself at it again—
the loneliness that comes always with night.

But one does not accept this lonely night,
and one finds peace by what goes in his mouth.
Short-lived it is, since failed he did again:
full stomach, damaged liver, soul empty.
And lost he is to what is truly good
as he but looks at his too trembling hands.

I take control back and steady my hands,
conquer the blackness of my weak will’s night,
and feel at once a chance to achieve good,
but phantom tastes do then invade my mouth;
my mouth, my stomach—a void lie empty—
and search for things to fill them once again.

He gives in to his carnal god again
and searches for cold respite with his hands,
knowing that he gorges on the empty;
knowing the promises, unkept this night,
were just worthless words from his open mouth—
knowing never to be among the good.

I rage: “I want the right! I want the good!”
I tire of failure again and again—
of life at the mercy of open mouth.
I try to wash the damned spot from my hands:
the self, that stain killing my soul each night
filling me up with that which is empty.

To wash away that stain he’s too empty
to try—too weak and frail to be the good;
it must be from the Sun—the end of night—
He that always comes again and again,
who can heal with a touch from His scarred hands,
who can breathe life to the dead from His mouth.

Never feeling empty in life again,
resting in the good, safety in His hands,
fearing not the night—praises from my mouth.