I admit the faults within me.
My fierce glowing table is always accompanying supper.
I am what I offer.
I am precise.
A god with frequent and ritual praise,
Unaltered by environment or
Screaming, staving thoughts.
But occasionally I am subject to
A textured obscure darkness- frankly I dread what I need.
Shoved right into facing what I have turned you into.
Slight flickers of light bring a short lived hope-like (but not exactly hope) sense,
And I patter and direct earthquakes from inside.

You need me-
Maybe dependence shines through,
But with no welcome mat.
A terrible romance we are,
The shushed ones,
Quieted out of resentment of our ways.
Drowning gifts of past ancestors,
Because you can.
You try to believe this sometimes-
You have shattered my heart countless times in the process.
Ironically, I am quite often the disappointment,
The book with pages ripped out right where you needed them-
The answers and validation.
You need to keep that jar full,
You panic as the glass basin becomes
More and and more desolate,
Vacant.