On The Man of Stars

He, I, died years ago, when history started and wrote manuscripts of its unsound flesh. Hark, behold His glory! Yet I was gone before the dusk of the first revered day. Even when they shot at silence, even when they drank to used-to, even when they wrote the bible, he stayed in Jerusalem. They who preached the noble He, when their rubber foam and glue and latex turned to cushions that held softly revolvers, they hailed Mary and began tearing down amity gripped. Man’s heart shot down a peg again, woman’s mantel respite candle, my corpse reeks of paralyzed life, you can’t ask for forgiveness. Clinging onto the shaggy hands, held together by string bands, full of worship upon the chapel which my statue grieves, they call upon heaven to win the war they started. Who will lull the holy golem? When has servitude remedied? What is religion but muted Tongue? New faith for every shot, I died years ago, he dies every day.