second coming

 here i am, back where it all began, a beggar with snot in my nose and scales on my ass, with my teeth rotting and matted hair with the stink of death that clings to me like burning flesh and my eyes like charcoal and bones under the skin like loose stones in a paper bag and my scarred heart under cracked ribs, the wound by my side hurts something fierce, and water in my veins and broken feet and twisted hands, broken fingers and my penis sharp and stiff and as dead as nails, and my ears ringing with the sound of thunder and of flesh giving away like maidenheads, and the grating of iron on bone and love like a raging fire, and love like a holocaust, and love like a kiss of death, my death, my death in the space of a breath, not much of a second coming, i guess.