Outta Hell, Outta Heaven

The wheel turns as I run, an endless carpet, spinning faster and faster. And the energy I expend exudes from within, evaporating in the skies. Heaven's in the distance; on the horizon I see it, melting my eyes.

Fatigue grips me, but I don't rest. I push myself, though I get nowhere. Because I've always pushed myself where the compass points, rain or shine. Running, running, though the bearings age and immolate.

Suddenly I look behind me, and the rage spreads like cancer, while I smirk and pant a curse. I slow to a snail's pace and reflect, bitterness contorting. The curtains lift, and I step out from beneath the scented veil: the velvet makes me shudder with disgust.

They were holding hands in heaven, carefree, their perfect skin untainted, watching me with comic distaste as I stood by my wheel, eight months outta hell, burned and boiled, scarred so visibly, dirty with darkness.

My vision clears, and I abandon the wheel, to die forever, for I know my home is here, beneath isolation's neglected wing, whose smudged feathers shimmer still, murky and lifeless. I poke around the dank dark, pupils widening, perceiving the rugged landscape stretching out around me.

And again I abandon heaven,
And again I tread the tundra,
And again I tremble before the flame,
That flares and flickers in distress.

And again I huddle here,
While time blows its wrinkly breath,
Until hell is just a memory,
Until heaven is just a myth,
Until my hungry smile,
Returns to me again.