I'm congealed, floored by amputated desire.
A will, no longer strong enough to haul it's own weight.
A firefly, carried off in the wind. Now, his fate.
When the breeze halts, what exists?
We lower our pride, but still raise our fists,
and into an unjust war for dominance,
we exist, we enlist.
A symphony of corridors and emptied rooms,
with shallowed floors, and wretched fumes.
Withered angels of Lucifer, I hear your call.
Even the Devil is too scared to walk the hall.
So hang from the slivered, crescent moon.
Though, insignificant as the loon,
Like a silver bullet from above,
you shine down on us, as bright as a dove.
What is hatred, what is love?
Who has it all, who's had enough?
A toxin that fits in me, like, to my hand, a glove.
Such a frail dream, shattered with a grip.
Ripped at the seam, filled past the tip,
overflowing, forever-knowing,
what, to this world, it has been growing.

---

I'm sure this poem has potential to be very controversial,
but whatever. If you read it enough, you'll see that it's
a going away message to bush (and yes, I mean the person)