I feel like the story was too good for me.
Like a great tale of return to society after
a great fall and a great tumble,
is just not my destiny.
Which really just leaves dying in silence,
or imparting a message of warning.
You really cannot struggle out from under
the narrative snow angel
your twitchy soul’s body
has left on frosty earthen lakes
and the fire will get you
no matter how retardant your beliefs.
So I don’t see why you smirk father,
your religion is your prison,
mine at least feels like a proud Saturday night.
You live in a humble, bitter Sunday morning.
And the greatest tragedy of the people who see
the nothing of the cloud above, is being robbed of the chance
to see the look on your faith-withered face, as it burns,
as it explodes with frustrated, wasted focus, on a fiction.
I would still rather swim, just the once,
in this absolute, than drown in hope.
I would go out like that forever, over
your ridiculous pose hung as savior.