I lay on the field, burning,
My skin with your thunderbolts,
My heart with your contempt,
My mind with impotent anger:
That you threw me so easily,
Like a hand brushing dust
That dared to smudge the shirt’s front,
While all the passion of my righteous hurt,
Dissolved into rivers of futile craven tears;
For what son could ever prevail
Against the almighty father,
Who fashioned him with his own hands,
In his own rigid design?
And was the pride you chastised me for
Any whit of the immense ocean of need in you
That needs constant praises of your mightiness,
Your immense goodness in creating us,
To be mere vessels of your predestined plan?
Ha! Hypocrite that you are!
The mightiest in my universe
Yet in most need of the reassurance,
Of cringing, blind, meek praise?
But no matter if you deny me your heaven!
My own hell shall I make,
Twisted, dark, barren but for thorns of immense pain,
Burning with anger, populated with shrieks
Of defiance against your smug self-righteousness
Sanctioned by your companion angels;
And every living moment I shall strive
To thwart your carefully laid destiny,
For me and for your pathetic little Universe
(Not vast enough to assimilate your pride);
You made me the brightest star in your sky,
And I’ll become the darkest smudge on your helm,
Taking pleasure in your eternal shame –
An ugly, twisted monster king of hell,
Than a decked-up, jewelled slave in your heaven.