Burdens of St. Nick Cave

Bastard son, how fare you?
I am plagued by crows,
contorted by misshapen creatures,
consumed from within by sickness,
pocked without by flesh eating disease.

Blessed son, how grows your heart?
It grows strong with my love,
weakens with the sum of all failure,
petrifies living within my tight chest,
sustains on the gleaming of hope.

Cursed son, how do you pay me?
I pay with the pain and misery,
measure for measure for my old childhood,
naming joys and suffering alike,
striking the anvil of resentment.

Fey son, who are you to me?
I am the sorrows of the storm,
rolling thunder surrounding you with panic,
the bearer of the ax used to right wrongs,
and keeper of the keys to the Kingdom.

Bitter son, what do you reap?
I reap the fields of blood,
harvest the crop sown with tears,
I thresh the grain and surrender to hands,
storing red memory against the winter winds.

Firstborn son, where lies your grave?
I shall be carried back to my homestead,
covered with the earth of my birth,
laying down my burden with glad heart,
feeding the flowers of ash and embers.

January 6, 2005
© 2005, wordlackey