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.