The Monster Tour

“You are a monster,” they say to me.
It is not a question.
It is never a question.
Their heads turn slowly
Viewing my cave
“I know,” I sigh.
“I am terrible.”
They gaze at me as I tell them my past sins
The curses I visited upon the world
I show them the bone box.
Fifty feet high and leaking at the seams
“Its creation was just awful,” I assure them.
“And it doesn’t even work.”
I show them where I poisoned the waters
Driving anyone who has drunk from them mad
“Eventually they all became sane again,” I explain
“Because madness is relative.”
I call it a shame
I gnash my teeth
Ask for forgiveness
“Each room is a trial,” I explain
Every passing moment I evolve
I whisper to them
I constantly become aware of my past wrongs
I swear off of them
Hoping to become better
Free from wickedness
When in fact
I simply graduate
To a higher state of evil
Existing beyond the minor transgressions of the past
Though aware of this process
I am doomed to persist in my course
Of repentance and degeneration
I exchange honest tears
For their dead stares
“Why are you alive?” They ask.
“Why have you not destroyed yourself?”
But of course I don’t answer.
Because I am tired.
I remove my hands from their mouths.
And nestle myself beneath leathery wings.


About paulgude

Paul Gude writes small books, makes stupid music, draws silly pictures, and does weird things on stage.
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