In the absence of the Sun,
I seek my rest’s permission,
to create demonic fun,
in wiping out division,
with eyes wide shut, I chisel,
making all their hurt,
deafened by my whistle,
is the lucid red alert,
how many necks do I have to break,
to make my world content?
Is the question marked on gate,
as I and them descend,
like Egyptian ancient plague,
oceans flow so red,
the blood of sorry voted league,
now play the grateful dead,
pastiche on Dante echoes,
fake loves and bullies cry,
them perpetual bedfellows,
not to reach the sky,
in the puddles of the mire,
I see a hellish face,
Lucifer, no longer sire,
I have took his place,
in the waking world,
they will never say they’re sorry,
so, I have to make this whirl,
this never-ending story,
when my back is to the wall,
cramped by imperfection,
to write a nightmare, makes them fall,
the cure to such infection,
but in looking at my horn-ed head,
creation is destruction,
thus, let me rise from my bed,
to tend to real construction,
where the true heartbeat plays,
risking all the chance,
with hope of better days,
to make a better stance.