Dying Fern (hell, prophet, God, heaven)

[Guitar's Cry]

This is fresh from my work-addled, sleep-deprived, and slightly-buzzed mind. The first poem I've written in months, and I fear it won't make sense in the morning.

Or will it make more sense than it should?

The Dying Fern

Who am I who walks a tightrope
Between the doors
Of Heaven
Of Hell
And that Other that brushes past the unexpected
in libraries filthy with age
and bedsores leaking Neon?

They filter out God sometimes
As something Golden and so pure
That even in the whitest snow Its name cannot be peed.

So rename!

I laugh at iniquities bought through years of splicing
the synergy of proactive solutions. Investments reek
Of unholy Profit and Greed.
Profit and Greed!
P!
and
G!

Suffering in turmoil at the hands of prophets dressed in Velour
And buying into Old New Age scare tactics.

I walk instead through gallant ferns
Dressed in the fertile fluid of morning;
Glimmering at the expectation of coming into
The world.
To die and rot and be the foundation
Of new Life.

[Guitar's Cry]

(Seems even better to me after a night of good sleep. I shall keep this one!)