When I was more than ready to abandon the corruption of rage
And the stained pages of the scrapbooks that you left behind in my living room,
The ones that I couldn’t burn for four months
And when I first noticed the advertisements for the pillar, how anticipatory my soul!
Up to where you weren’t
Where he wasn’t
Where nobody was but me
To where I, like the builders of the Tower of Babel, could reach out to Heaven
And scrape the utters of the clouds with my fingernails
From here I fantasized that I could claw away the scraps of air and atmosphere
And pour out my fifteen months of insomnia, profanity, and callous nightmares into the stars
And the vacuum of space would accept my refuse openly, willingly, begging me for more
The visage of God would grant to me perspective of the highest kind
To stare into the past, and render the explosive events my previous century fuse-less
Then to light a new candle of my own to burn with the intent to forgive

When I arrived at the summit, I discovered a rusted, overgrown sign that read
"Beware, you who would attempt to climb this pillar of freedom"
You who would attempt to overcome indecision to replace old with new
For love that lived in the womb, but was stillborn is better than
“What I wasn’t ever sure of with you.”
And purgatory is this high-dive before the new lovers plunge
So shackle them to the ground.

But

if from thence thou shalt seek the LORD thy God, thou shalt find him, if thou seek him with all thy heart and with all thy soul. When thou art in tribulation, and all these things are come upon thee, even in the latter days, if thou turn to the LORD thy God, and shalt be obedient unto his voice;(For the LORD thy God is a merciful God;) he will not forsake thee, neither destroy thee, nor forget the covenant of thy fathers which he sware unto them.

Prophets build their own graves,

then burn, burn with anointed oils and sacrificial fire.
Wise prophets use not their own tongues,
for these devices often prove the incendiary flint that strokes the flames.