Poetry by Fitz

I hate her,
The red heroine we can’t yet live without out, coursing through us mortal beings
The failed images of Gods.

I hate her, I do. I’m not telling you again.
Yet I submit myself to bloodshed
A scarlet sadist, maroon masochist
Who is a stone and yet who bleeds
As though Excalibur has been torn out of him at the hand of Arthur
And I
The stone that guarded the sword
The stone that bleeds dry
Am left alone, gaping, weeping aridly
With bouldering thoughts of veins I wish that I had.

I hate her, but what I wouldn’t give to be alive. To be more than a stone. 
To be your grandson, to be
your lover,
my mother´s child.