There are gaps in heaven,
empty voids of godlessness
through which almost-angels fall
through arcs of feathers swirling
in slow spirals of building sin;
their ends are fissures rent in hell
filled with almost-demons rising up
on wafts of kindness and respite.

In the space between are mortals,
frail lives of narrow frenzies
caught by shifting moral webs
of goodness and depravity,
our prayers and curses fought over
by those above us and below
like starving jackals hungering.

Their furied screams and pleadings are
the stuff of nightmares and belief,
our loves and needs all shaped into
a million twisting paths by hunger,
passion, rage and hate,
to fill the heart delighted
or crush all care
with strangling grip
of sick slack-jawed profanity.

For our prayers are fuel for endlessness,
eternal grist for wheels of judgement
cloaked with abject fear of death
and futile yearnings for more life
while every action brings us to
the teetering brink of constant choice
that spills us into hope or rank despair.