I am a child of a forgotten time
trapped and pressed into a borrowed soul.
Soaked in placenta,
spilling ancestral memory,
raised on a diet of self loathing, faith, and fear
My God is a cereal box,
filled with eight essential vitamins and minerals,
part of this complete breakfast.
On the side of the box, a fun little maze is printed.
It spirals in gold and spins toward eternity.
I am nothing but what you see,
black and white, stepping, floating,
spiritual status quo,
a tongue of flame flickering fiercely
here atop the pyre of my heart.
I burn monochrome,
grey as storm clouds,
looking out over a world drowned in rainbow lights,
yearning for my moment to cross over,
step beyond the barrier into bright neon lights.
My God is a cereal box,
my faith the milk I drown him in.
He starts solid,
yet I leave him far too long and he grows soggy,
disintegrating, disappearing.
He is more soup than cereal when I taste him.
What I see is not there,
my senses betray.
After a short breakfast,
my faith purges my God.
I flush him away.
My devil is a pack of cigarettes.
He will sustain me until lunch
