You’ve walked the edge,
strung yourself out
on the bent-dreams of others,
stared delirium straight in its ugly face.
Carrying scars from the dark side,
you strut with perfection,
molded from that which isn’t.

And in that vein, you are more
sacred than all the saints
who line the halls of Heaven,
even those devils squatting in hell.
For they are dead memories
& you are living proof.