Pile in a Room.

Burn down to the floor,
And smolder there, as I will watch passively,
My hand of His power, stretched towards a black stack of crusty dust,
Crumble!
Before I finish the word, it lays down to die,
Giving up its futile struggle, impossible to survive in the room,
The room is bare of all possessions, with bare brown walls,
And dim lights, that reveal portions of the shaded wall,
Once again,
The smoking pile, attracts the attention of my eye,
It looks dead,
That’s the mistake that the others made,
As I strike it again, it rears up, and says,
Don’t kill me, I am the secret to happiness,
I am your happiness,
I screamed back,
I hate your ways,
Addicted, Dirty, crusted with death pile,
Be gone from His room,
I struck again,
And killed it.