Reality is an evangelist running riot through the streets of an
                                                                        atheist mind.
Preachers come like policemen after my trafficked heart.

Sound and fury's always there, as is fire, and brimstone.
But always, the rain melts what scriptures lie chalked onto stone
                                                                             walls.

Riddled with emptinesses like blanks firing through a soma mind,
what place for God in a place where God doesn't exist?

A girl dreams of an angel, crying at the foot of her bed.
He is there every night, pale, shaking.

What is past, stand down.
Ashes to ashes. God. In spite, despite

I'll find my angels in the dying of a leaf,
in the clinging love of water droplets to my fingers;

in the asphyxiating silences of my magrilan-smoked mind,
in the crumbling interstices between memory, language,
                                                               thought and desire -

shaping a phoenix with these hands of clay,
I will find my semblance of heaven.