Soft little hands…the hands

of an angel, of a doll that’s been

pieced back together too many times.

I seem to be running out of

patience for these bystanders

who deny me what I know I deserve—

I deserve nothing more…

I deserve nothing.

-

Glamorous halo, spray painted golden

and shined with the oil retrieved from

greedy Mother Earth by the

untouchables

and carried, piece by piece,

back to its shattered master.

Green-gold olive leaves glisten with

the same sweat and blood that gleams

upon your goddamned throne.

-

A deva, deus ex machina, walking

on terra firma, among men, the

untouchables,

the cast-off offspring of gods.

Misguided conception,

unguided perception,

will lead to our ultimate demise.

-

Is it true that mankind will bury

itself in sorrows of greed and betrayal?

Betrayal is a cruel mistress robed in red—

the color of a whore—

when greed is robed in gold—

the color of a goddess.

A trifle unfair to those willing to lie,

but is balance necessary for those willing to

steal?

-

I cast off the meaningless shroud of balance

in favor of opportunity—

the opportunity to shatter your halo…to sully

your righteousness.

Blacken the face of this deva for he

walks among men.

Turn the face of this deva blue, for she

walks among whores.

-

Bidding adieu to love, to her paramour,

this whore will leave the earth without

a halo—her ticket—and without her white dress—

her disguise.

-

The deva resides no longer within the machine.