They say heaven is to thee,
what God is to the angels.
What then is hell to me,
besides demons crawled beneath thy nations?
They ignite in my bones,
like clouds on the sky.
Like thorns on them roses
and resurrect among stones and bonsai.
They flow through me,
like wind beneath a bird’s wings.
Only directionless, repelling against sea.
Only hopeless, pulled apart by a dozen strings.
And I wonder what this may bring,
on behalf of beautiful things.
For you make me want to destroy what I had built,
only for the sake of unsatisfied guilt.