they saw me with hatred.
because when they spat lies my horns grew
they saw me as cold
because their words bounced of my steel skin
now they see me with love
because my eyes aren't the stones they used to be
now they see me as warmth
because my colors aren't as dull as the wardrobe i hide  behind my skeletons
you bring out the fire in my heart
bouncing on those thousand year old  billows,
somehow you make my heart hot enough to melt gold
and large enough to be filled with it,
your a catalyst to my cataclysm
but if its the end of the world your going to cause
ill sit and watch, with an arduous passion
because even in my dieng throws i will be made of steel and stone
yet with you standing by my side
i feel like im made out of plasterboard

i pressed the moon to my breast
and took light to heart

now i see clearly when i fall apart
     and pull myself back together
with nebulous lassos

Do you still see the hand of God?
Or has that appendage blended,
Into the power of spiritual awareness,
To which I see my fellows so attuned.

I know that God is not a man,
Not a person,
And not a thing,

But I miss my story.
The one about sacrifice, love, and fate,
A great father at the helm,
Directing us through waves that petrify reflexes,

God gentrifies the isolated,
God intimidates iniquity,

And spirituality is for the soul.
But I wish, still, for a better story in this age so new.

I would have loved
to know
you searched the way
I did
That you dug for
every bit
there was to know
about me
That you scoured pages
upon pages
to see if there
was anything
you were missing from
my biography
That you hammered out
my name
in every search engine
known to
man That you wanted
to know
who I was connected
to and
how we were connected
That you
refreshed my social media
pages several
times per day just
to see
if there was anything
I forgot
to tell you. That
you calculated
the likelihood of my
emotions based
on the time and
what I
had been posting That
you thought
about my motives for
every post
every article every store
every movie
every question every curse
every call
every text every word
That you
spent at least some
of your
days completely cocooned in
the possibility
that I may be
someone entirely
different than who you
know just
for the sake of
wanting to
think about me further.
That you
might get so lost
in me
that you forget to
get lost
in you

Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again