Electric Room

I don't talk about gods because I don't believe

In any hand-drawn stories sketched by men,

But there is an angel in my electric room.

.

She has wide wings and glowing eyes,

Blood on her lips where they curve into

A smile that disrespects the awe in my belly.

.

The lights, blue and violet and pink, burn

Across the edges of her wings and catch

In the soft outline of her floating person.

.

Wet music leaks from the edges of her soul,

Splashing through the serenity I worked

To cultivate in this room of black and neon.

.

There is cruelty in her celestial eyes

As though she is angry at me for designing

A room beyond her sphere of influence.

.

This is the last dying space of solitude.

I have carved it out with fading strength

And hands that barely remember opposition.

.

So, I will slaughter even the prettiest of gods

If they dare enter the final resting place

Of my will, this electric room of black and neon.