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The Cupcake, the Woolly Mammoth and the Gargoyle

I asked Her to turn me into a cupcake;
She told me there were no more cupcakes to be made.
I asked Her to turn me into a woolly mammoth,
But there were none of those left either.
In the end I settled to be a gargoyle
And She seemed to be okay with that decision.

Death isn’t so trouble-free,
As many would like to argue;
As a matter of fact it’s just about
As problematic and complicated as life.

So as I’m on my third beer and an empty stomach
Around half-past 1 AM,
I become conscious of the notion that
I try to be sweet and fulfilling, offering
Moments of pleasure for some
And perhaps guilt or shame for others,
But never something
Terrifying or threatening.
And though my attempts
At a charming demeanor
Can definitely attract,
I feel that many only see me
As a frightening beast—
The ghost of a monster
That once ruled the icy climates
Where many fear to venture.

But I suppose
That all I really am
Is a winged demon
That sits atop the roof
Of sky-high architecture,
Looking upon Her creation,
Dispensing traces
Of heavy rains
And daydreaming that in death
I could be reincarnated
As something more enjoyable
To the world—

The world of puffins
And capuchins
And girls that are
In need of something endearing.