Clip my stride and I'll be at you like a tidal wave.
I'll strum the wings off an angel, to gain a quill -
to pick a lock. But You will not. And that's ok.
Some of us will a punch a rose in the gut
to get the honey. And the rest will fall.
They'll see where it is that a darkness walks
and spot my footprints ascending
from any hell
they wrought.