I was the bringer of dawn, pulling the sun
into the sky and allowing my constellation
to fade before His light. I leant against
the edge of darkness and stood, for a moment,
amongst the bright white of Heaven's Throne, deep
chasms of blue circling my feet.
I was the greatest of them all,

He made me the greatest of them all. I
was a prince, the lord of the air. Now,
I am nothing. The shining one, light bearer;
sent to epitomise darkness and evil.
My wings have been blackened by soot and clogged
by smoke - they will never fly again.
I will never see the sun or be free
amongst the stars once more, pushing the sky
around the Earth. I will never feel His
approving hand on my shoulder or resting
on my head. He cast me away as if
I was nothing and cut my hair from my head,
replacing flaxen curls with horns of blackened bone.

The Devil, they call me. The slanderer
who was hurled from heaven to hell. I see myself
in pools of despair: is this who I have become?
Where did the man who shook the earth
with the beat of his wings and make whole countries
tremble go? I made the world a wilderness
and now I'm gone it has been cultivated
into a dull plain of melancholy.
I am nothing without the white brightness
of the night's sky, I was son
of the morning. Venus was my head,
the morning star my heart.
Now, my constellation lies in the ashes
of soul fire because of my foolish pride and envy.

Grass beneath my feet
and soil in my hands,
tipping.
Your lips on mine,
wrapping me around your fingers
and splitting the silence
with anticipation,
falling.
I keep waiting for the world
to one day become still
but you dizzy and confuse me
as if you are a planet
and I am the asteroid
caught in your orbit.

I want to glow in the way that a burning house does       but
I'm afraid to lose my foundations;
I've kicked them out from beneath myself so many times that I've stopped blaming god and since then, also, stopped asking him

who wants to be the pacifist that allows rot to turn to decay? I want to be the annihilator that turns lust into impassioned regret.
I will announce in the hour of concession every ill thought I've held, turned to glass beneath the pressure of my own resistance

I am powerless to act upon my desires,
I am sick in the same ways that i am well

The barren woman has the last laugh
like a blow to the back of the head, a knife through butter
these things are simple
I've seen a grave that belongs to me, and I've walked with men who comb the streets

here I lay, here I sleep, here I propose aloud the mystery of my position as I am both now and never;
she who hunts; she who burns
she who does not unto others but unto herself

and I am the weapon and I am the wound

and I am a visage of un-reality - the snake that writhes in circles to devour itself;
a kind of destruction, a kind of re-birth

She's talking about the cloth we're cut from and the scissors she used
but I'm only half listening, because
there is this pain in my jaw that comes from dreaming
and outside the house i can hear somebody speaking

She's asking about the axes I've ground and the wounds I've licked,
I can't tell her a thing and in this dream
my mouth is sewn shut and I am not strong enough to change anything

in the morning I will wonder why she comes to me,
but doesn't stay

The world is an ocean
Thick and raging waves
With shoals of people
Rainbows of colour
Beautiful to see and hear
Sad they don’t all get along
Their colours combined would amaze
Salted spray, cracked lips and sore throats
They talk through the ache anyway
Gallons of water never to drink
There are no tears in the sea to blink