Untitled

I could bleed permanence
                and virtue,
bear the child
of your assigned God
       and weep at your feet,
yet I would still hold no place
    in the city you call
            'home'.

Were I the harbinger of doom
             and destruction,
I would receive fanfares
   from the weary
       as I enter their
crumbling citadels and burn
  the last of their hope.

              I am not of your blood,
                  not of your kin.
               I am the facade of the
                  towers and spires
               that crumble beneath
                      your hatred.
               I am not welcome here.

There is no home nor
       rest for I, the wicked;
   I will lay my head
       upon this mound of bones,
bleed permanence and desolation
      as my crown of thorns
pierces my paper skin.

               I am no paragon,
          just the light that burns midway
   between destruction
        and creation.
     I am fading fast,
        and when this light goes out,
  your city will not mourn
          the loss of an outsider.