The dun wanna is upon him again,
sapping his heart’s autonomic urge
to keep expressing blood and words.
You have to burn with The Urge
in order to be one of Us,
the voices of the blue angel chorus
hissed from shoulder-left. Burn.
Better you should just burn altogether,
for all this is worth, said the fallen
angel posing as fickle muse to starboard.
He sighed and thought to throw the wanna on
his unlit pyre pillow of kindling woven of
other broken wannas and those heavy haftas
that he had no fire left to ignite.
Instead, he sighed, dipped it in milk,
rolled over and wrote a note on his sheets.
It said, Can’t do it no more. None of it.
He closed his eyes and lost the fight to dawn.