All your spellweaving 
falls off the loom into a ditch ‐
the hole that lies between what is
and what will never happen ‐
a mess of tangled threads

You hack through umbilicals
like Crippen, ripper
to screw charity from a soft heart
use black‐gutted evil to get light

Moloch in the playground
Let them play
these things have their sandbox
May love pour down ‐
and drench you