The machinery of his heart, always at war with his mind-
He, who wrestled life away from scraps; those husks of peace left in compost buckets.
Off-brand savior, who nails sleep to a cross,
Sacrificing restfulness for children who were no longer child-sized.
He, who loves animals because they live exactly as they have to
He, who mixes ink and poison, takes a drink
And writes his last will and testament, perfectly in meter on the back of a receipt.
Inevitably, death will reach out a hand and find
There is nothing to take.
A litany of collapsed idols have arrived,
Their ghosts parading through hallways and streets,
A march lead by fanatics and faint-hearted paranoids,
In chemerical clothing,
Espousing that there are no new gods,
No new gods,
No new gods.
God isn’t dead,
He’s just napping.
Here is the church,
Here is the steeple
Open the doors
And here is a lion,
Here is its prey.
Here is a mirror,
That reflects like stained glass.
Here is the face of a man
Dreaming through an endless labyrinth
Of creatures and cultures he thought he could abide by.
Here are mountains that look
Strikingly like giant’s shoulders
Only when he stands at the bottom,
Books and planets,
Convulsing with creation,
He observes this, settles on rooftops
To drink wine that had gone sour decades ago.
We are the last men here, maybe.
Swimming in the night
Through fenced fluorescence
That smelled like freedom, once.