Poetry: What is This?

What is this
that straps chains
upon my wrist
clasping my caked
soul in iron
steel strong
never rusting
never shaking
keeping me at it
ghostly mercy?

What is this
that forces me
to my knees
in unspeakable voices
that shrill
and cause weeping
in chaos and
prostration to its
filthy name that
only it keeps clean?

What is this
that likens itself
to gods and kings
above all laws
mortal, immortal,
natural, unnatural,
with its body
that supposedly shimmers
with imagined light?

What is this
that causes humans to worship
and offer sacrifices
much like the Aztecs,
red rivers running
down an altar made
to keep peace
with a violent god but
only showers bloody
rain and war?

What is this
that never sees
the death that
covers its green carcass
as men reach out
to caress its folded
body with blackened hands
knowing only this
feeling of obsession
crinkled in their pockets?

What is this
that wears stains in
already marred fingers
searching, groping for
a reprieve from this
cycle of masochism
that straps chains
on the wrist
and clasps the caked
soul in iron
never rusting,
never shaking,
keeping one at its ghostly mercy?

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