by Nick Gisburne
I think I like you better when you’re dead.
In silence I appreciate the peace.
For pleasure, when I crush or crack your head,
I dream it gives me permanent release.
A demon, reincarnate, is a bore,
Tormenting angels, shamelessly, for sport.
I tolerate you not a moment more
Than garbage in a grubby afterthought.
The man upstairs has spoken with your boss.
Your essence is expendable, it seems.
However will my heart repair the loss?
I’ll try, in Heaven, singing to your screams.
You picked the wrong divinity to fight.
The only way is down. Enjoy the flight.
