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.

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About paulgude

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