My life was bad; I did a bad thing
Now I’m in Hell and I can’t but sing
Of loss and dreams—escapist fluff—
Just stop me, if you’ve had enough.

I’ll bookend the sequence here for you,
Just by this campfire I’ve trod through.
I hope God’s daughter finds a way
To summon meaning from what I say.

Inside this jar of glass I’m trapped:
A metaphor extremely apt
For what my life was, while I lived
A last sardonic parting gift.

I am apart from all I was
No clothes to hide me, and no fuzz
To shave from off my face: just me.
Come, gaze, and see all you can see.