Benign

I'm at a standoff with God,
choosing not to believe a lesson
He never intended to teach.
And He laughs in my face,
screeching blasphemies right back
with the coolness of a spring morning.

Your heart feels tender in my claws,
and I rip you to shreds.

Sometimes, I think the poets of old
were proper pricks,
notwithstanding their education
and doubting the boundaries of
an ever-evident existence.

I hate you: you hate.

Stories never get sung
on the lips of a cycling brink
of disaster, and honey-sweet promises.
We all fall down
when we forget
to flap our wings.

I smack my head on the techna-colour floor.

Maybe I'm a cynic
but maybe you're a critic,
and it was in the cards for us to fail.
It seems appropriate anyway.

I'm at a standoff with God.