From phoenix ashes centuries ago, he was my father,
turning dragons to bones and Gorgons to stones.
Three sixes and a star tell me, I'm better off dead,
a court of jesters and forked tongues, unjustified.
Sitting atop broken clouds and miserable shrouds,
with sundown searing into my sapphire eyes,
manequettes dance, nailed to crosses, in between my sighs.
They rode 'cross shallow seas and through ashen trees,
from Wonderland; spewing black oxide sands,
like Jesus played Saviour, drilling tears through my hands.
Enraged, I stormed off to scar the Armada,
screaming up a mouthful of deadly hurricanes.
I felt no blood running through my veins,
cold, icy, my entire soul frozen in haste,
a crimson waterfall erupts from my heart; was my birth just a waste?
Devils, I have never believed in,
but God could never create such awful Sin.
Father, I fell into your hands,
expecting safe and night-less lands;
but I was eclipsed; and grasped only by sorrow,
each suicide left me waking to nightmares on tomorrow.
