handfuls of air

I was raised in a pastel tomb

of thin Puritan carpet infused

with the moth ball smell of preservative comfort

and dusty wooden crosses

and dead books barely held together

by the stale optimism of a spoiled generation,

benefactors of blood spilt,

sure they're predestined for this,

so they constructed a labyrinth

concrete, sturdy, to shield them

from a world moving on,

and they painted it baby blue

and made children to fill it

and reduced reality to flannel board fairy tales

and dead puppets in dark closets

and bloodless cartoon crucifixions.

They imagined themselves caught between

a world-enveloping devil,

a body clay and soaked in evil,

and a vampire god that slurps sacrifices

and turns his back on billions of burning souls.

No wonder they built these heavy doors,

these constricted smiles to hide behind.

But I found an exit,

some wicked path through the briar woods

tearing at my self-conception. I emerged

shaking, searching for new skin,

but my consolation is

that the children are disappearing,

and the flock grows grey.

One can only pray

that the end is near.