Divided is the renegade,
As twilight's shroud descends.
Despair has breeched his barricade,
Here where his journey ends.

There is no God to call him home,
No Savior defends him.
From heaven's grace this rebel roamed,
Religion offends him.

He's never prayed the Lord to keep.
He trusts man's delusion.
A soul that lives beyond the sleep,
Is just an illusion.

Yet here he stands beside the bed,
Where flesh lay defeated.
He hears a voice pronounce him dead,
His journey completed.

But slumber has not closed his eyes,
He's filled with confusion.
Beyond the veil of his demise,
He finds no illusion.

He fearfully attempts to flee,
From whatever awaits.
Like all who thought they'd cease to be,
He can't escape his fate.

In a place where God is absent,
Far beyond creation.
He will wrestle with the torment,
Of exiled damnation.

Alone he greets eternity,
Into the night he fades,
Where he will share the destiny
Of all life's renegades

It's not your fault your talk
never found a fondness
for words,
I'm the "supposed writer"-

I should have penned something
beyond the ink

Language has no skeleton,
it can quickly take shape of any form,
perhaps lightening bolts
that somewhat resemble
j
..a....l
g........i
..g....n
e........e
..d....s (our love always seems to be threatening thunder)

I could have rolled letters off my tongue
and watched them scatter about, like critters
to their befitting nook
in my poetry

I ate the alphabet as a child,
you chewed numbers
and spit out black on white,
never blending the two

I prefer to think
in color,
if only I could adorn your logic
with a more prismatic hue