This darkness
has pushed me to sing
because if I do not
it will drown me.
So I gurgling
sing the murk,
the murder,
thick burdens
laid upon
head and lungs.
I strangling sing
my fight to get above it
though I feel
no hope
of light there and anticipate
no whisper beyond my own
to offer me
harmony. No, I am
Golem and I
don’t know who
raised me or why,
or how against all lore
and odds I am singing
when there seem
to be so few
to listen and by law
and story I should be
silent by now. I am
not, though. I am
not though it is dark
and these words
carry not even feeble light.
Still, I am — and I flop about
and sing this glug of mud.
I must have been made
for some cause. Nothing
could be so cruel
as to have drawn me
thus forth
for nothing.
