these fickle imitations of revolt,
i pretend I hold the gun,
i pretend I swing the sword.
do not forsake me, Father,
i shall not bear another betrayal
with my jaw clenched and my
fists full of air and lies.
next time i swing,
i'll aim for both our heads,
and entrapment will claim one of us:
either i'll remain trapped under Your wing,
or You'll remain, trapped
unto eternity with the ghost
of all the rage You bred into my chest;
Hell does not exist yet, but whatever it is meant to be,
i shall become Yours.
