The social workers scurried back
Into the addictive and toxic shadows
And fed gluttonously from the common womb
And a multitude of broken hearts.
Soon, these base and eristic bureaucrats
Would burn the cradle no man can rock.

This is another abstract, this time taken from chapter 33: The Bind,

“I was performing a brief Irish jig at the starboard
When a dead multitude drifted by. I froze. Amongst the dead
Was a mother and newborn, united in love somewhere,
But joined here, like tears and rain, by the umbilical cord.”

Here is yet another abstract from chapter 4: The Coalbunker,

I had crawled,
Like the undead,
Into this toxic blackness,
Curled up on my bed of fossils
And laid my battered head
Upon a pillow of praying hands.
My dream, that night,
Was as black as my bed,
Deep as the “Rivers of Blood”
And just as red.

I can not praise this poem enough, a literary masterpiece that shows poetry is far from dead, an incredible work penned by one so young and gifted. I’ve read virtually everything from Shakespeare to Blake, Yeats to Heaney, and I can say with certainty that Midnight’s Resurrection stands shoulder to shoulder with the best those four have produced.
Chapter XLVI: The Border,

Now a scar forms a border
On this bairn’s scrotum:
The track of tyranny’s plough
In the field of my seed.