Dry Thirst

You put me in your fiction
so I put you in my machine.
For there are creatures two
of us against those ill seen.

Games behind me I strive
towards the arch of heaven.
Only the angel of death he
now does often me threaten.

I’ve a path I’ve a way broken
in the glides of tide on sand
where it awaits a hand land
swift and stout reprimand.

Yet the swell of hell compels
but I that hand a story tells.
The trigger finger is happy
shoot for hope for a fairytale.

Why are you against me world?
My friend my kin the first
I lost to the Reaper awhile ago
now in pain I’ve a dry thirst.

Quench my fancy on paper,
that I will accomplish later
when at the Pearly Gates I get
to atone to my own creator.

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