"Behold, I was shaped in iniquity . . ."

Hyssop

Too late, the faceless mouthed, and shut the door.
Limp lowly light scraped sideways past stiff bars
And soul-red drops criss-cratered ‘cross the floor,
An angry forehead’s pledge of promised scars.
I knelt on stone (my cell and both my knees),
My stony claws made pawprints on my face.
A cough collapsed my broken chest, released
A flood of howls, excuses, my disgrace
Poured out and puddled, slimed across the slabs.
I writhed and gasped a word, a giant name:
Rude blood, not mine – not my wound – bled and scabbed.
My speechless heart was buried deep in flame,
But white rage, once confessed, slipped from my hands.
Once more I saw the blistered hands of man.