To He who
hath taken
all of me
for a fool
let it be known
it’s for the birds
and that I shan’t
say much out loud
better yet
anything at all
because mouths
and souls
at a loss
have no need
to recoup
stolen words.

Your idle hands
ashame
even the dev-
ils that plague
your mind
and shallow
attention seeking
prayers
cannot save you
from the various
versions
of yourself.

When the clock
strikes infinity
the warmth
you feel will
not be from
your loved ones
but rather
cynically will be
from the burning
coals of suffering
that burn blacker
than your heart
and that you felt
were worthy
to place in the grasps
of those that gave
to you unconditionally.

Now they
scorch your feet
as you walk
the blackened plains
alone knowing
what you beseech
is an obsidian
desert palace
made of oily tears
left unweeped
and a blaze
of suffering’s coals
compiled with
charring hate
to make a throne.

I sincerely
hope you reign
for as long as
the desert dunes
reject the rain
and that your seat
of conceit
brings you comfort
with jet mirrors
that caress
and worship you
proudly and vain
as the sinking sand
is melted into glass
and blown
for you to view
consume and feel
the nothingness
of your empty soul
through it’s open pane.

© poormansdreams