Agog With awe And gripped With fright How can I last For one More night
My awe My fear Hold me In thrall A lasting Longing Curtain call
I sleep I dream I know My place ‘Tis full Of pain With-out God’s grace
For all My sins I can’t A-tone I’m lost I’m gone I am Mere bone
Des-pair And dread Are my Mill-stone Worn as Penance On my Head-stone
To you Who now Will hear My story I pray You will My fate Be-moan
History generally lays the blame for the murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, on his former close friend, King Henry II, who, in 1174, did penance at Becket’s tomb in Canterbury Cathedral.
Poetry has become my religion My faith lies in belief Belief that my words convey my feelings Express my thoughts In a way that my actions are unable to do And while I write While I construct my idolatrous icons I am worshipping at the altar of my muse And offering penance for my frailties.