GOD IS DEAD, FATED TO BE AN EXILE, CONSIGNED TO THE FLAMES SINCE 2005.

At night I toss and turn in my bed of needles,
questioning the scrap fabric memories of my past,
mixed up like a patchwork quilt.

You tell your flowing lies of silk,
as vivid as velvet and thickly detailed like corduroy.

I am your fabricated child,
from the twisted sewing machine of your deranged and cruel mind.

I was once as enchanting as satin,
decorated with tears and holes,
now tragically in tatters.

In the end, I am too torn to be mended,
I cannot be stitched back together again.

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The world is crowded with many souls,
all I see is a white emptiness.
I see many bleeding hearts littering the landscape, bleeding out their sorrows,
drowning themselves in the process.
As I keep walking this path of nothing, I see rusted chains and shackles,
once accompanied by bonded hands now wilting littered in the path I must walk.

I remember searching for someone to love a long time ago.
halfway through my search, I gave up,
knowing that looking for the elusive prince charming was of no use.
For both failure and reward I wander through an aimless path,
through the garden of flower bouquets tied with now frayed ribbons,
rotting away as I walk doomed to everlasting loneliness.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.1 Australia License.

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My angel has fallen from grace today.
It breaks her heart to know that she has failed me.
It breaks my heart to hear,
“No, say it is not so!”

She inevitably welcomes the embrace of cold and shackled chains,
her once unmarked wings turning to black as she slowly falls to her knees.
“Forgive me.” I hear her say as I gather up the nine blackened tails of agony and misery.

I decorate her with autographs, signs and symbols that blush of many roses,
as I magnify our symphony with the numbers of perfection and change.

The chorale that greets my ears is one of much needed redemption;
another chance that only I can give.

“The pain of it all will cleanse your mind and sharpen your thought.”
I say to her at last as I put my misery machine away to be played with another day,
between us after, there is many a thing for us to say.

As the rosy wounds on her snow pale body begin to swell, she takes my hand and nears it to her lips as the crimson petals from her paleness starts to flow like nectar turned to wine.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.1 Australia License.

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