Turning inward,
you stare at death in eyes,
throwing dirt at moon,
half-night away.
The words bleed.
You want to define the
pure relationship.
Loving yourself was
very painful, when you become me.
Walking up to the altar
to break the bread. You wanted
me to become a prophet
of no religion.
But I will never get
the kiss of eternal flame
on my lips.
Life twirls in my torment.
I become a blind sun.
Why did you turn into a smoking gun?