unequal

paradise is cotton candy masquerading as guns licking up flames on the burnt chair, tearing out ashes from a living wood not wanting death, sweetness burst forth as one dream takes flights like angels flying towards earth to give grace on gestures of repentance, head bowed, praying earnestly that heaven will set sight on this soul whose transactional exchange surely must move the gods because when everyone repeats a lie, miraculously it must be alchemy, a forging of documents that a devil's advocate would weep to see. maybe such a rebellion need not be done at all, nah, not when the ink is barely dry and all of heaven have switched sides. guns like petals flooding the lanes, the river banks is overflowing with pink, fishes gurgling for clarity, clean clear water permeates, diffuses, smoke and mirror, more mirrors everywhere and the last reflection looked a lot like you. where. how to live in a burnt chair simply wishing for life back, seeps away while the bullets rain down, soot falls to the ground, the merry men are still partying at the latest joke of pink, pink world in callous hands whose fingerprints are just like any wooden chair, what gives angels wings to fly? head bowed, heart deceived, a burnt out spirit whose ways are like clear water - without wings. to lament, to turn the tables about, to change the rules of the game, the angels departed having heard pious prayers dressed in routine, a formula, like an algorithm, burnt out chair the angels rained fire on jaded earth eager to blame, to take reward, to win, to have more conquest, more, it is always more and wings swept about the merry sky, brooding heavily when callous fingerprints were all around pointing at everyone else. ashes to ashes, the burnt out chair wailed once again, to the assuaging smoke, brimstone and fire, it's not fair! and it wasn't, said the angels flinging more bullets, pink and smoke when a distorted mirror cannot get fixed from the outside and bowed heads, bent knees were a mockery towards celestial beings who lived in the in between... ... not hindered by wild acts, theatrics and the ever crying more that smoothed the field of brown grass wishing to be on the other side. but heaven does not play the games of earth, a yardstick mismeasured, misused, abused when love held her own, walked her ways, words foreign to lust whose only dimension, comparison was not to be the burnt out chair. love chose to be ashes, to be mocked, disdained, and it made no sense to a world unequal.