He walked a monastery garden in spring. For him, it was a cemetery Devout, and offering up All the beauty of his life Desiring death Or something more glorious And permanent than his own flesh Skin stretched and ripped By hundreds of muscular claws--- Demons Of his own designing He stares at us Expecting nothing. Devoured By his own pain, desiring death. He hopes that his suffering Makes his soul more succulent. The demons gnawing blindly His face and hair They relish the meat beating Between his ribs, it resists the most. His world is all gray white. His face a bloodless rose. His back a hardy stalk bent over, diseased Bells ringing distant and disharmonious He allows the monsters The tenderness of his brains. A man of strings and tatters. Devoured by the divine. The memory of pain. Eyeless. Sleepless.