Even sweetest muse
cannot carry the burden
which singing of you
drops on pearly gates.

Given the choice between
heaven or hell,
you have chosen the path
that leads to a better place
for everyone involved.

Demonic swathes attempt to
steady themselves
for the barrage of good fortune
that sight of you brings
to the condemned and their kin.

I hate it when you do that;
the way you dissolve a
malignant thought
with some melodious sentence,
whatever it may be.

Your voice
is the judgement in my mind's courtroom
that breaks the shackles
holding my ego hostage,
where flowers do not bloom
and hope is six feet from reality.