The words, lately, are more reactive, that my saddest nouns belong to her. Chapter screwing verse, like a personal Satan, leaves self-styled churches so vacant, religions so flagrantly
of a choice to worship.
I looked and found no gods fuelling my purpose, and people said it would be empty; yet I stood as a sentry to my own moral codes, watching them erode, predisposed to hypothermia, standing outdoors in the cold.
Bottlenecks right out of Revelation, as all the fucking locusts collect at choke points, the apocalyptic deployment has launched,
and alone I stand, adjacent, to falling bombs.