Not for symphony,
not for melody or harmony,
not for the gods—
but for you,
my angel,
the ruin I mistook for my existence.
I tried to pull you
from your private hell,
drag you out
of the grime,
the rot, the stink
that clung in your marrow.
It smelled like ***** and ****
like rotting flesh
and trash-littered streets.
The swine squealed.
The harpies shrieked.
I stared too long into the fire.
I should have glanced,
but I became you.
Thank Yah, I escaped.
He dragged me out by the
nape of my neck.
You made it your home.
You decided to dwell there.
But I will never
vacation in your hell again.
I’ve sung my song,
survived the dark,
Orpheus, rebooted
refusing to look back.