There is nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nothing.

As the smell of oil and tar has soaked all realms,
God gave men free will, but they knew he was bluffing.
All men got was a heart as a battlefield for themselves.

All heart’s matters are individual, and therefore can be disputed,
and are private, and them staying that way is vital.

I am walking a marathon to the wall where I will be executed
on the black path of a repeating Radiohead vinyl.

In the naphthalene on your lungs, in your teapot filled with cold water,
in your cupboard behind the cups, in the endless line to your doctor,
in the smell of your favourite flowers and the dust of your favourite venue,
there is a lit candle bleeding wax on the poems I’ve never read you.