I come to a fork here, trivially,
Bewildered by my mind’s comprehension
Of the things it was made to choose between,
Like a machine forged from glass; the intention
Being that, shattered, the cracks branch away.
The fork, like a set of fingers off’ring,
Each giving me a taste of where it goes,
Does little in aiding my suffering,
‘Cause my destination I’ve yet to know.
Birds can fly and return quicker than I,
But my decision cannot be unchanged;
The tale is longer than stories of mine,
But, like a book, it can’t be the same.
The sun begins to set along the west,
So I step down and forget all the rest.

Aloft, the mattresses on which she sits
Are facades that shield much more troubling things.
Their roots are grounded deep inside the pits
That stop solutions; soon, the bars will bring
Another pea to which the mounds will mold.
Bedsprings try to push parasites from her,
But soon tendrils will render her stone cold.
Naught can stop progression, if I concur.
As for things besides, that pea rots, growing,
Into another monster without rest,
And till the truth emancipates, the sting
Can melt the layers entirely in jest.
Though, when that day comes for longer sleeping,
Peace is felt by her who’s longed for keeping.

Where, if not for hell, do people go
When they pass from this world into the next?
Forgive transgressions, but what do they know
If all the places are things too complex?
This is asked because the time is now come
That those who avoid hell find themselves gone
To a realm elsewhere, a place without sun;
A destination older than the dawn.
The dead find oft a fumbling spirit in
That keeps them thinking if they’ve truly died,
But when that spectre knows that time’s begin,
Something further in it, its place, resides.
Lo, the place is found among the clouds,
When corpses cower deeper in their shrouds.

I seek for love, and you seek it as well.
What else between us could there separate?
If you by my side could sit for a spell,
If love my company did not dictate,
Perhaps, I’d leave and ne’er come back to you.
For the moment, your eyes of pain regret,
But I the hurt am able to undo,
I pray the memory you shan’t forget.
Your perfume is calming and comforting,
It makes the mind wander some through the dark;
You are so bright, you leave me wondering
On my way would I come across a spark.
What have I found, for which I’ve been grateful?
You and I, now, is occurrence fateful.

The path to heav’n is not one aptly ta’en
Because for things and worldly joys we seek;
If our eyes and senses be mistaken,
The answers to our questions be oblique.
We’re thrown about in sinful *** a-boil,
Whose flame permits the crimes and lies reveal;
The heat incites a panic and turmoil
A timely death comes post our flesh congeal.
Throughout our lives we fail to rise above
The harrowing things that we call our own,
Because they’re products of what we think of,
Restraints that hold us down till we’re alone.
But from your wrists the weight of Earth be raised
Remembering that you cannot be fazed.

To grieve of death before it knows to come
Is lack of chance for sin a soul to take.
Because the dread of loss can leave one numb
Though calls our faults are prone err make.
Having nothing on which to base our dares,
The doom befalls those who, amid fear, live.
If such merchant ne’er sold hands wrought his wares,
Then for profit fruits of labor ne’er give.
Pointless it is to not amount forwards,
To fear the end and not live through the start.
In speech in rhymes you fool renege your words,
Till from this world your lies disgrace; depart.
And when your death its sting comes back for you,
Perhaps the fear and fire of hell will change the view.