The Most Devout

devote thyself

By now my blood has washed up
On some endless foreign shore,
And I stand here, feet in the sand,
Tasting like iron in the mouth,
Content to excise one more delight under heaven
From my open chest cavity.

It was a taste, I confess, developed in sickness.
And the ocean keeps lapping up all the endless crimson tide.
And anything else unlucky enough to spill out.
As I rummage through the morsels of my abdomen—

I hear organ meat gives you gout?
But perhaps, all things in moderation…
I have so many guts and…
I won’t need them for very much longer...

And always, always, this time of night:
The emptiness.
But now I’m truly going to hollow myself out…
Feast on my innards, cleave the hole bigger and deeper!

For so long I tried to fill the void, 
And in the end, its growth could not be stemmed—
In the end, I am devout to the endless depths of nothing,
As I commit myself to their proliferation.