A poem concerning numbers, days, time, biblical symbolism, satan, and a powerful message... what more can you ask for?

Poem - 
On the 39th day, Noah had two doves.

On the 40th , Noah listened to a voice from the sky in his head that was stuck in the clouds.

On the 40th day, Noah had one dove.

On the 40th night, Noah condemned himself, pondering endlessly over whether or not he had done right. Over whether or not he had condemned the fate of the species of a humble, pure, clean, white bird. Over whether or not he was insane for letting a voice whose face he’d never seen control every breath, every twitch, every response, every heartbeat, every existence he’d ever existed for.

On the 41st day, Noah had two doves.

And hope.

On the 39th day, Jesus sat in the desert.

On the 40th day, Jesus sat in the desert with lucifer.

On the 40th day, Lucifer antagonized Jesus.

On the 40th day, Jesus was exasperated; irritated; vexed; irked; done.

On the 40th night, Jesus was nostalgic. Nostalgic over that time when Satan dared challenge his glory. Nostalgic over the fact that the king of temptation was attempting to tempt the King of kings. Nostalgic that the fallen angel was bursting limb from limb trying to fell a messiah.

On the 41st day, Jesus had hope.

On the 48th day, Jesus had hope, nostalgia, and a stigmata.

On the 39th afternoon, I chose to draw a stigmata over my hands, feet, and torso, thinking that if I deranged myself, I’d gain a level of sanity through the acknowledgement of my own insanity.

On the 39th afternoon, I had only insanity.

So on the 39th evening I chose to impale the markings I had drawn on myself, thinking that if I could visually see the pain that was inside leaking out, dripping out, drop by painful drop, like a reverse potassium IV, that I’d physically be able to see what was actually wrong with me.

On the 40th morning, I had 5 unnatural, unhealthy holes in my body, and still, insanity.

On the 40th afternoon, I was overcome with sloth as I lay in my bed, my apathetic sack of bones and blood, still leaking and soaking my bed a hauntingly dark red, recognizing nostalgia for every mass I dazed off on, for every instance I thought I was a fraction above the fractals of complexity locked within the Creator’s naked eyeball, for every lit cigarette my mother passed on to me second-handedly that I tried to deny but crawled its way into my lungs as I breathed a sigh of acceptance, for every time I tried to say no to the Holy Spirit but it crawled its way into my lungs as I breathed a sigh of acceptance,

On the 40th evening, I breathed my last sigh of acceptance, as my soul accepted its final fate.

On the eternal-th morning, my soul crawled its way into the lungs of God, my final resting place resting, nestling, playing the game of  nostalgia in Heaven.

39 40 41.48

Poet. Wannabe rapper or rapper wannabe poet????? 
Liver: One who lives, not a part of the digestive system.

Siirmack