Isn't it odd how the sun will explode one day?
How it will burn its country to bits
Leaving the land scorched
As if nothing was there in the first place?

Isn’t it funny how the sun will collapse in upon itself and annihilate its entire colony of disciples?
Of whom are so reliant on Him
Those who worship and sing His praises
Who walk outside just to feel His Red Hot Heat
Because His Aggression has never been perceived as a threat
But as a passion to be absorbed  

And He will **** them regardless
No matter how many pigs are sacrificed
No matter how large the bounty
He will stand. Smiling. Beaming. Laughing.
With crossed fingers behind His back
Kissing poison into His Children’s Skin

One cannot even look at Him
His Beauty is so blinding
His benevolence is crippling
Always lingering in the air and yet never to be acknowledged

And the flowers still open their petals to Him!
He flirts and kisses all of their skin
Whispering sweet nothings about how their beauty is the Only One He Beholds

Very few rebels live in the midst of His Reign
Those who look to his Battered Mistress
Those who come out of the shadows to seek Her Maternal Gaze
Her lopsided smile and Her wavering nature
his proportional counterpart.
Yes, what about those who abide by the Moon?
They yield no immunity

They claim that He is all powerful. All knowing all loving
And yet His Children do not know about the lands and the seas that lie just outside his territory
How He is one of many
How greater beasts, giants, and kings could squander Him in a single breath
How His Maximum is truly a median
But if He is Nothing..
then what are we?

Defenseless.

Holding the power to see into the future which lies in direct opposition to the ability to do anything about the fate we behold
And people are cruel enough to call this power a gift
Those who over-analyze blueprints as if each is a puzzle waiting to be solved
Ignorant to... No. Ignoring, the incestuous nature of the land they walk upon

Sadists, all of them.

... To which a ******* makes myself
The One who loathes Their God but brands Their Skin with His Name
Hating within hypocrisy and living out of spite
Hoping consciousness is not the opioid it appears to be

What’s the use?

A struggle with no resolution?
A mind without peace?
Opting into a pain of which there is no relief?

Smiling as if I have Truly Won

I wonder if my terror of
Boys and Men
Will stop now that He's left
From my life again

I once met a boy
That smelled of oranges and sycamore trees
He wove stories of aristocracy and rebellion
And with each word he spoke
My infatuation only elevated
Filling my lungs and stomach with a feeling I knew must have been

Love.

He shone as furiously as the sun;
Scorching the weeds of my mind into shriveled had-beens.
And as the sun,
Everything he touched was instantly a work of art
Gleaming of gold as if he were Midas
And I-
I was halogenic to his warmth,
All of me under his gentle control

But he was the sun.

And as sons do, he faded as gently as he arrived
Leaving dumb humans like me in the dark-
Having never seen the fire behind the felicity…

Darkness cascaded her gentle arms over my sunburnt body.
With the smell of sycamore trees still lingering in the air,
And with oranges stuck in my throat,
I sat.
And waited for another sunrise.