A slight tone of guilt envelopes my poetry,
as I question why he was ever granted a life.
He is old.
He is slower now.
He is a burden to the innocent children of tomorrow,
yet he is still granted life.
The texture of his heart is as rough as it is cold,
which perhaps explains why he spent so long trying to break mine.
He is quickly collapsing, fiercely descending into death's queue;
death is now lovesick for you.
I do not wish suffering to exist in this world,
but lets pierce the illusion that some people
don't deserve to burn in hell.
I wonder if he could assemble a confession with his last breath,
or if he would tremble with hesitation between death and denial.
A life wasted on a concrete monster
who would deny the sky is even blue.
Lets pierce the illusion that life should be granted
to those who truly deserve to burn in hell.
