What would I do

if I could fly for a day?

I’d fly all day, of course,

to faraway lands,

across the seas,

over the highest peaks,

and relish every moment,

reliving the thrill

for the rest of my days

shackled to the ground.

Nay.

To long for that

which is no more

and never will be again

is to serve a life sentence

in a prison of false hope.

What if, for but a day,

I could move unseen,

and roam unchecked

through the normally forbidden?

What would I do with a gift

more suited to thieves

or crooked men

of the lecherous kind?

The temptation to sin

claws at my chest

and lures a darker self out

to play with no consequences.

Alas, my conscience

is mine to bear alone.

A single, blemished day

on an otherwise faultless existence

stains with lifelong guilt.

No.

Or maybe.

Maybe I could perform ″miracles″

like the angels who walk the Earth.

A kind deed out of thin air

or an invisible saviour

to inspire for centuries to come

with every religion claiming

it was their God.

But alas, tis but a parlour trick

to reaffirm in the faithful

that which I myself have lost.

No.

I cannot.

It would be better

to inspire kindness

from one human to another

than to keep others waiting

for the Hand of God

which strikes more than it saves.

I am a simple man

and do not want much,

except that which eludes

my fellow men --

the truth.

Oh, not the divine truth

or whether aliens exist.

I want the truth

behind your smile,

that look within your eyes

when you hold me tight,

and tell me that you love me.

What better way to know that

than to hear your thoughts

just as they are born

and still untouched

by the senses?

It may only last a single day,

but what I hear, unspoken,

will keep me happy

till my dying breath.

Oh, I know how you lived.

I know where you began,

and how you crawled your way up

into the pockets of the rich,

the powerful, and the perverse.

I know how you lured your prey

the vulnerable young

into your den of debauchery,

forced yourself and others upon them

and threw them out on the streets

like used, broken dolls -

casualties

of your greed and lust.

They were going to school.

They were going to go to college.

They were someone's daughter.

They were someone's sister.

They could have had normal, happy lives.

But now, they won't

and never will.

And when they came back to haunt you,

to demand justice

for the unspeakable acts of evil,

you pulled the black strings you tied

around the necks of your corrupted puppets,

and got away with it,

time after time and time again.

But this time, you’re going down.

All the people you know,

your so-called “friends”,

or should I say

your fellow paedophiles in power,

will not come to your rescue.

Oh, on the contrary,

they cannot drop you fast enough

or denounce you with stronger words

and feign ignorance of your beastly ways.

I can’t tell you what’s coming

but all I can say is this:

You’re going to pay,

and so will the others,

for all that you’ve done,

and I will be there,

yes, that’s right, personally,

to look after you

for all eternity.

The time has come

for me to visit you again.

I've brought you all the things

you used to like so much,

along with other stuff I'm told

the dead can't do without.

I wonder – can you hear me?

Are you really there?

Is this for the indifferent dead,

or is it for the living?

All I have are memories,

and memories of your memories.

That is all that's left of you,

and what I fear will become of me

the day I turn to dust.