Angels of the Netherworlds,
cease your waving hands;
beckon me not onto the planes
of existence that transcends my humanity:
I am naught but the Dying Son of Man embodied
in broken shards of twisted wisdom
painted all over the streets of my home town.
The planet is angry;
tiny pulses of a heartbeat
rages inside the earth,
and we never understood why
the stars refused to forgive us,
though they are our fathers
and the world our mother;
did we have to sacrifice souls
to appease the womb of chaos?
O drifting shades of pale rainbows,
hearken to this aria of all souls;
I am not Enoch, but how could I not envy him
for being chosen by God to become an angel,
the Scribe of God - Metatron - that has gained insight
into the world of blessings and betrayals;
for I never stopped dreaming
of once speaking
with his voice.
To guide the blind through the abyss
while I am blinded by grief and fear;
to curse the benevolence of my companions,
as I learn to cherish only that which I've lost:
Whisper softly in my ear, Angels of the Netherworld,
and guide me to the profound depths of forgiveness
and teach me how to stop hating myself,
so that I may carry the rage of this planet
and make new continents from it's volcanic vomit
Because maybe there, I would find peace,
from all the madness ticking in my empty inside.
I am tired of leaving nothing but destruction and ruin
in the wake of my terror manifest;
I am exhausted with leading the One Who Hates The Light
through waltzes that never end,
and I have yet
to find solace
in anything
except for
my grief.
