this is the godless territory of lesser
beings,
or so i’ve been told; wingless movement,
serpentine
against mosaic tile, bellies cut open by the
sins
of man– such a pitiless misfortune of unkempt
pride.

this is neither heaven nor hell but something wholly
in-between,
purgatory surrounded by faceless skin walkers,
starched
by their infinitesimally short lives and i, among them,
walk
to and fro, just as forsaken as they, with this knowledge to
bear.

their lives are kept in a cycle of dust, clenched in bloodied
hands,
molded not like potter’s clay as i was told– no, they are
wild,
petulant things, so full of ideas and wit and horrible will;
teetering
somewhere on the edge of an oblivion of fire or
light.

i miss my many eyes and tongues of fire and gossamer wings
painfully,
there is an emptiness in my eggshell skull that yearns to
break,
to pour out vengeance in bowlfuls, to chant amongst the
others,
to hear my all-knowing kin as they blow their trumpets to signal
armageddon.