Footprints (I)

Footprints,
Hands seem to touch
The glass, the sky
The craving for air.
Tables of hope
Denigrating me
I lie in a saint’s heart
Hung for theft
For I still stare at the stool
And I loathe and love it
And I feel like needing it
And hands acclaim
Fingers reach to me
And pierce right through me
And hanging from an angel’s wrist
I steal a flight
Just to fall back down
Where they don’t bear the decency to let me die.