Destruction

I'll sculpt these forces into forms.
The boys wears rags
and his nails form pointed claws.
Wings sprout from his tortured back.

I've made my fair share of ruins,
but I've never unearthed one.
I've shattered plenty of galleries,
but never held a brush.
I've smashed cities to dust
but never walked a street.
God help me, I've burned books,
and I never learned to read.

There are little girls pointing and laughing.
Somebody is cooking something.
A dog chases cars.
A boy sits in the dark and his nails are trimmed.
He prays for wings.

Those girls will die in a train wreck, their tender forms broken beneath a twist of iron and steel.
That man - not a cook - will burn his food, and fetch the can opener, and step closer to my sister.
That dog will bite a man and be put down, and that car will explode when the fuel line fails.
A freak accident.
I am the freak accident.

I only fly in soot-stained skies.
My hands will rend apart whatever they touch.
I wear rags because I cannot be otherwise.
I dare not be otherwise.
I dare not hope.

My canvas is civilization, wrath and ruin.
My brush is hatred, vengeance and terror.
My paint is blood.
There is so much blood.

I'll break these forms into forces.
The boy wears rages,
and his hands dissolve into acidic slime.
Wings furl over his tear-streaked face as the stars themselves die.
He is beautiful.
He dares nothing.

I live in moments where everything is dared, and lost.
I die in moments where everything is grasped at in vain.
I watch when men plan,
I awake when men fail.

And when she's around, I never can seem to stop laughing.