Heaven Is Too Hot And Hell is Too cold
Burned my wings on a neon sun,
Too bright to love, too fierce to run.
Angels talk like kings of war,
Locked in gold behind white doors.
I wore the light but it felt like chains,
Sweet-smiled ghosts that sang of pain.
Wine of silence, food of lies,
I watched truth choke in holy skies.
So I climbed down that spiral stair,
To where the fire taints the air.
Hell’s halls whisper in red and black,
But I found no soul to watch my back.
Demons dance with preacher’s grace,
No shadows left for me to face.
Ice on skin, fire in my bones,
Screams felt carved in marble tones.
This isn’t sin—it’s symmetry,
A mirror cracked with dignity.
They promise heat, they promise cold,
But never the heart, just silver and gold.
So where’s the ground for a soul like mine?
A storm of flesh, a bloodline spine.
Not too bright, not fully damned,
I ride the rift with empty hands.
Spit out from grace, laughed out from sin,
I draw my blade and breathe within.
If heaven’s flames burn fake and clean,
And hell’s ice hides a guillotine—
Then I will walk where no foot goes,
Between the thorns and shadowed prose.
A crown of ash, a throne of rust,
I’ll build my truth from bone and dust.
Heaven is too hot for me—and hell’s too cold to trust.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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