Hell

I used to call you ‘saviour’,
I used to think of you as the sole goodness in me,
the perfect tumour
amongst the malignant, healthy pulp.
 
I used to see your everywhere,
growing out of the faces of other men;
out of the nose and the lips and the brow
and the eyes – oh - your eyes
always so sullen and sunken.
I wonder, were they hiding from me?
You used to be
remnant of my human form, so far gone
 
Only the etchings of a good man remains,
the echo of good; that voice which was so godlike
if only for being so harrowing.
My voice replied, ‘I love you,’ knowing it could reply only then,
and to only him.
 
You did not want goodness or unity.
You wanted me to leech your identity,
to turn you into sludge, to mar you,
melt you into a paralysed anonymity.
You wanted me to make a handsome succubus of you,
you wanted me to impregnate you
with a cowardly idleness
which grew and grew and grew,
from the feedings which I gave you.
From my innocent dreams, were you hound me
and nibble and tickle at my feet,
you exhaust me!
 
You make pandemonium of me,
you syphon the sagacity from my sentence.
You make a bore of me.
You make me loquacious because you are my only answer
and all I can produce is anxious rambling.
Thinking of your eyes,
and lips and nose
and brow,
it exhausts me.