I am a cursed man
with a touch more shiva then midas.
Every beautiful blessing I destroy
and am unable to rebuild, but only to further spoil.

No blessing have I held lightly,
cherised, and treasured.
No, I am a destroyer with a grip of iron.

In my palms is the gore
of that which I have tried to love
would have loved better
if I was whole instead of hollow.

I have stuffed my emptiness
with the bits and pieces of all that I had.
Not gold, nothing precious,
but the rust and dust of all that I should have cherished.