The Way Things Aren't

The dust on my hands creates callouses on my palms and fingertips

Traces of tar and disintegration stain the entrails of my guts

I chew the dead skin hoping it'll bleed

So far that my heart will stop.

What more can I be denied

That these prints be made scars

To remind me of what has died

And what hasn't even been born.

There is a passionate reality - to the point of senselessness

The same reality that conquers the nature of my scorn.

Where can I rest? Where can I hide? That God cannot comfort me

In that He never does smite me without due cause.

The dust falls from the Heavens, cloaking my very being with crystal

And it's an unwanted pleasure.

All these things unwanted

Crawl under my skin and tie me together in such a way

That I cannot remember the original web of my veins.

Reality makes cynic of the saints

And nihilists of philosophers

And what reality has made of me

Is what I am not.