If only all the sweet
and terrifying
things I say could be untrue,
then little gleams of life peaking
out would be stifled
before they gained a senseless
spark of courage
in the face of undying agony.

Ha!

So says the ******, if he could
speak,
looking back at good things done
to him
by him
for him.

I shake my head.
I am not ******. I am dead.
To death, to sin, to darkness,
and to all the crawling creatures
of the murk.