I am not the heaven-bound
the saintly, holy
sacrosanct.
I am not the pristine soul
blameless, and
unstained.
I drink the world in
blood and all
I selfishly admire
all the beauty, all the pain.
Taking in the light, the dark
the smog and mist of
interim hours
I rest somewhere between
all that floats,
unknown,
above,
and what they say awaits me,
down,
below.
Jaded, no concern, no
quivering plea for mercy
I am of the universe,
vast, and cold;
born from the fire of
Earth
No desire to dwell
to decay
in thin, white joy,
spending immortality
caged.
Numb, senseless harmony --
that's what they try to sell me,
but I have no hope for heaven --
it is far beyond my reach,
though my head
is in the clouds;
my beating heart
among the stars,
fingertips grazing the sky...
if I could
I would
miss the blue-black midnight
I would
pull the constellations down
to join me in my haven,
glittering darkness
but I am content
to gaze, to long
and leave a little left
to hope for.
I offer no wishful prayer.
I raise my soul to no one.
If there is someone out there listening, I would not hear their answer.
I hear only the music
of the glim-lit nocturnal hours
the savage screaming
of the free.
And if there is
a hell for me,
maybe it's where I belong,
rogue, hellion,
caressed in the flame of an endless fall.
Yet maybe there is
no one
and we all go out like candles,
dust to dust,
mere particles again
if this is so, let me be dust of ash
of bone
if diamond, drifting,
over all the sin and sorrow,
all the joy,
so alike in memory,
swimming in sweet recollection.
Those days I spent
unholy
those things I said
unrepentant.
I am my own --
no one else's,
and I'll burn all the way to the end.
Note: This is what happens when you listen to too much BVB and then write a poem :P
