whatever words i say

fighting for passion in a stagnant lullaby
a creeping repetition at the base of his spine
cut from a phase he can't antiquate;
if there's poison in ink, someday he'll escape.

stirring the words in the hopes they won't tangle
stirring and blurring and resenting the angle
caught in a fit--or maybe a plight
desperation dwelling; our god justified

  

after the flesh when naught else is left
driven by anger, contempt, or regret
dying to feel like we felt yesterday
so live in the past, or lead him astray?