a dreamer's prosecution

You always see him when you sleep.
He is quiet, slithering,
a grim reaper hanging over your shoulder.
Whether it be through fog or your cigarette smoke,
his silhouette beckons you--
you're never close enough.
You only wish you could be his raven,
digging your claws into his tattooed shoulder,
his unwavering companion.
It was never going to be you and him,
but why did you let him in?
Why did you let him taste your dream magic and ride shotgun?
Silly gambler, don't you know?
A neon vacancy signs flickers as it hangs over your heart,
and he bought a permanent room,
nestled between drugs and thievery.
He was the only thing you wanted that you couldn't have dreamed up.

You heard him say the words
"I'll burn you alive",
but you couldn't let him feel that guilt.
The object of your affections
decided you weren't a prize worth winning,
and he cursed your name.
His hate tasted more bitter than the rise and fall of a hero,
or a stiff line.
He isn't yours and he never was.
All that was left to do after that
was burn yourself to ashes so he didn't have to.
You just couldn't face him.
Oh gambler,
look what you made him witness.
The rise and fall of a villain,
a thief of dreams who had his heart stolen,
and died for his sins,
like an unholy god
that his love might've gone to church to kneel before.
Though,
I suppose there's no use praying to a dead boy.