What A Poor Soul

What poor soul it was that felt the wrath of God
Who let rust grow on the gates of Hell
To never let them creak slowly open.

My bitten tongue
Sputters and bleeds.
My lullaby of lies
Coaxes and leads.
But the key to that gate
Was stolen from me
During the sound of toenails
Scraping flesh.

Sugar on his lips, a rose at his feet.
He always takes credit for things I’ve done.
No matter how many people he saved,
He was a thief.

To make something beautiful out of
Something simple,
He was behind himself.
Now I’m writing in the dark.
The key to that gate
Will never again
Be stolen from me.

Cricking creaking brazen
My broken collar bones
Rotten teeth
Are the surly key.
Try to take them now.