My god is my demon, red-horned and grinning,
his fanged teeth biting tar-colored lips,
and a silver platter portioned with empty hands and minds.
My god bends hurt towards dreamers, poets, those artists that haunt
the gray law-suits with their spirits and pens,
as they paint decaying sunflowers upon the city's brick walls.
My god tells me "I'll pay cash for your soul,"
but I prefer credit, I prefer gold.
I prefer the city skyline parading with smoke
from the flames built below my pending gravestone.
My god is campaigning behind wooden podiums
and making false promises to a working class-gentlewoman
who bleeds blue with regret and slices bullets from her teeth
like an insecure surgeon seething and self-healing.
My god slaps sickness on the back of children's spines,
burns forgiveness with insurance policies and last month's rent,
and gives a woman a hope just to rip it from her throat
with such evidence of perfection: her neck's purpling bruises
that match her lover's fingerprints.
My god grants me a pennant for gluing my heart to my sleeve
that sings melodies to broken bones sickening upon the ground
and thrusts my arms to the sky to pledge what I believe
to the boys with their backs turned at the beating heart's sound.
My god grimaces with crooked teeth
towards the beggars and non-believers praying on the streets,
their knees on the pavement, coveting the road's parallel lines:
the same path to Hell's lawyer and Heaven's spokesman.
My god is my mirror, a wanderer that leaves a flaming trail behind
as gravity's crimes pull me further down to the safe haven below
when I mime each step towards a rejecting sky.