I am mortal cold; my soul is a phantom wraith
Fleshless demons corrode my brain
Yet I will gain beauty from this pain
I desire to be perfect in a tragically beautiful way;
I desire stronger than the strongest faith or strongest prayer,
Stronger than the angel who moves the air.
My ambition, my hopeless hope, my obsession.
Estranged and alienated,
Imprisoned in my own shaken soul
This superficial sickness impounds me
No complacent thoughts, only dissatisfaction,
Disaffection and disappointment
Sticks and stones,
And broken bones.
Thoughts and confabulation,
But no persuasion.
My dreams run like sand through my fist
Recurringly remeasuring,
Reweighing, retrying.
The golden gates gleam,
The white light shimmers.
The after world,
A utopia of everlasting dreams,
An ecstatic kingdom of eternity
An azure atmosphere of Arcadia.
An unattainable fantasy.
Portrayed as perfection,
Heaven:
Slaughtered by society.