Impersculate
My veins have capsized
drowing in their own fiery red
searing with the eternal implosion
called
impassive confusion.
The oven bells are ringing
calling the chickens home to roast.
If home is where the heart is
then I'll make my bed in the corner of hell,
and iron out the flames
that have eaten me inside out.
The two faced fate
found my soul,
broke my spirit,
but left me whole.
And all I can say
as my heart pulses away
is "Thank God, I was never alive."