The God Of Empty Streets Ii

I am the God of empty streets,
choking on miles upon miles of concrete.
Made from whispers and stars, fashioned from the residual
when my mouth has closed and my hands have opened
I will dance in the corners of acid riddled eyes,
calling to the seers of dimensions between,
to the sorcerers with hands that hold no power
for all their stave's have snapped.

I burn like the supernovas that waver in the sky,
ejecting light into the darkness that swallows galaxies.
And I hold them in my hands, blood red giants
that gaze upon man and laugh at its irrelevance.
I am the God of the wayward, protector
of the impotent and unreal; they travel down my throat
into a sea of crashing color, they swim
through the static of my gullet, deep into the chambers
of my crux. There that they dance with the streets,
they waltz atop of time, and the fates
will spin string out to meet the feet of my children.

But there are black hands that reach for us, the cage
of my chest cannot protect these creatures from them.
They take me by the neck and reach their fingers
past my teeth, ripping my burdens from their dreams.
These devils will color them red, their skin will breathe
with mine, their hearts will burst, eyes will blind
and though I eat the streets I cannot stop the crime.

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