The marks of my hands

are on you.
I leave them behind, pressed,
pressed there.  
Carry them in boxes,
position them on shelves, and on your
drunk nights, your 
quiet nights, your 
working nights, your
pensive and alone nights,
or in the arms of a woman nights - know 
I will arise, that
I should be there, that 
I will never leave, that 
your many things are
unfairly bought - 
thus will I haunt your dreams, your 
thought, your
waking eyes - I will pierce and prise 
the hours of your days
for I am lodged, secreted in the places 
you have boarded up -  
you are not free.

And in your old age, silent and alone,
you will pine for me -
for my face will haunt you all your days
and you will know no peace.
Your curse is liberty:
no arms will feel like mine,
you will be always alien, 
success will fester and corrode
and your sour seed will grow 
to poison all your mouth -
find a Priest
and kiss his stone,
make a pact with the devil your own 
to let you alone.

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