Pi (spin forever down)

This thing broken

Is healed, known, handled with calloused palms,

But broken still.

It has loved, rightly, wrongly, in and out of line;

But is done.  Tired.  Sick.

Afraid at the tender age of 24

That it's time has come and gone

With only bitter fruit to show.

And impossible to know!

Who, Lord, could commune with it deeply but you?

I swear: no notes are loud or low enough to Resonate

With the incessant dronings

Of this grievous bastard in my ribcage

(but I'm always looking for them).

Stir in me newness; wake me from this slumber, straighten my spine; scream my loud songs with me!

Lord let it come soon.  I am forever in umbra on my own.