Poetry

Death isn’t absence… it’s not
despair. No, it’s
Truth’s bosom.
Sweet and warm, holding tight
in Her supple embrace.
But I cry. Why?
Why must I cry?
Why does anguish twist my stomach
in stabbing thorns.
Why must we,
those left behind in frigid reality,
cry?
Left behind in the barren, subjugate wasteland…
Hell. Who the fuck knows?
Maybe this has been that all along.
Heaven is up Truth’s skirt, and
she only spreads to the worthy.
One day, yes.
Not all who see, get the chance to kiss those lips, but
one day, yes… I’ll drink her sweetness dry