There’s a sinkhole in my
soul, like playing the blues
without bass. There’s a
Heaven somewhere but
nobody manning the patron
gates, and undesirables
infiltrate its most fertile wastes.
Here I hang in the meanwhile ether,
a place betwixt the in-between—
I remain unseen
even to
mine own
eye.
And thus, I craft something
never meant to die, but never really
gets to live. I create
to forgive, painstakingly
consisting of all the self-
destruction immortality’s
made apparent.
I am an enigma, a
mystery even to me—
though I breathe and bleed,
I feel inorganic, unmammal, inhuman;
all encompassing, omnipotent and
beautifully blasphemous, sacrilege
for allusion’s sake.
So I take
these loves and give them laughter,
daily resurrections to prepare them
for Rapture the midnights
acquaint,
handcrafted rite of passages
all my angels can posthumously use
to paint me
legends,
spread a hopeful
message when we
finally acquiesce to those
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