The Man That Resides In My Head

They said I could be anything,
So I became as I thought no could else could be.
I became the dead man walking
Of simple and interesting things.
I sit upon my mountain of books
And I stare out at the world with all the troubles.
I look for any way to use these people as hooks,
But I only find that they dissolve into rubble.
Their brittle bones are too weak,
They can’t keep their own thoughts in tact.
These people are too meek,
Their own opinions turn into false fact.
I look past them, I don’t need such fools.
There must be powerful zombies
That I can use as my own tools,
Such beings that won’t fall to fantasies.
I look beyond to the animals so few,
Yet so many the same.
I sit and wonder how many can I go through
And how many can I use in my game.
In a game a chess, I need my pawns.
The animals won’t do because they, too, are weak.
I need something strong as Hell’s spawns,
I need something that won’t fall in a simple feat.
So I look up in the skies
And I wonder if there’s any hosts
That would led a hand, for they fly
As simple and skilled as nightly ghosts.
Perhaps the angels could help me
To bring about the end of the world.
Perhaps they would let another flood be,
But one of blood and delicate pearls.
The bodies of all those around me would fall,
The people that were so little,
And the corpses of animals and their call,
Their bones would become so brittle.
Under my hand, they would surely perish,
With my army of angels, they would disappear
From all my ideas of what and who was fairest,
And only I, the dead man walking, would be left here.