Lately, I’ve come across odd characters and purveyors
Players and soothsayers of such fallacy; yearning and moral foliage
that stirs up something inside of me.
Something that is not inspiration but equally so
Just and robust—inescapable even,
unsure what the word is…

We’re all owners of a false paradise.
That warm place between life and death
It’s meant for a love one that never takes it away
or purposely fills in the gap left in ruins:

A home underneath the veins and a place beneath that as well
A prison made of tendons
With ligaments attached to heart-shaped locks—
Nooks and crannies in the corners of joints and bones.

It’s the lust for life
And the bargain for a soul
Less than zero *****
Given to while in the cold.

The realization remains peripheral
Nonetheless opaque and visceral
Painting a mordant but striking visual
That sharply penetrates the individual.

Pharmaceuticals help dislodge the jaw and
tempt the ravishing worms of intestinal intrigue
to slither out from the bowels and say their piece.
“Hi, I’m anonymous and I’m an addict,
But only by the broadest, modest definition of the term
More like an ill-advised profession,”
they say with a subtle wink in their sponsor’s direction.

It’s the lust for life
A fierce addiction
With hedonists as victims
Catered to a primal submission.

They’ll hate me; fear my desire to split from myself.
I’m an empathetic Jekyll, an apathetic Hyde.
A tainted Seraphim, a saintly devil-kisser.
One half a feral Bonnie with an over-****** Clyde.

And when all is said and done
with carnage coming out of the wishing well
You’ll see that I am both a vision
Of Heaven and Hell.