Angels of the light,
dressed in red leather and spikes
are chanting a hymn of holy delight.
In addition they marvel
at the spectatorial sight,
of the loon, burning alive
in his own nightmarish sky.
While hot smoking suet falls
an uncaring mans
he knows he is a shrieking lost soul.
a writhing blotch of blood-lust froth.
A stain rots in the core of his mind
shadow of a mind.
A mind which posses as a king passing through time.
A man whose world whips
its way through a black graveyard
it is only
a leftover gleam,
a feral dream.
He sits alone ensconced in a palace of hunger
longing for love
he finds only a cold cairn of stone
garnished by wilting roses
and death's dying sparks.
A signal that his end
the spell of the sepulcher.
There reside the remains
of his last molting,
meanwhile he is now choking on his own
golden schizoid lie.