There's no such thing as heaven,
Just nostalgic acceptance,
Deep in some crevice of your blissed out brains,
And if you take enough pills you won't have to be awake.
On my morning walk I saw four angels lined up on the streets,
And they went one by one and cut off their wings,
Tossing them in some mass grave,
Unmarked and unfurnished.
God sat trembling on his front porch,
His rocking chair squeaked as this quiet winter whispered.
His lengthy withered fingers gripping some old book,
Of twilight years and meaningless miracles.
He squinted at some thuggish passerby
Telling the youth “You know, I was just like you.”
Strong, unwavered, women came to me in droves,
Men killed their brothers in my name.
“There’s no place for you here old man.
No one is burdened by your will,
Or swayed by your speeches
Your spotlight went out, you need to take your bow.”
That old man died not soon after,
Poets proclaiming his sad march into nothing,
A few rudderless souls coming to see his body,
They seemed weak, but content.
Maybe I recall a story he once told me,
Of his son dying for some crime not so heinous, but I regret to say the details escape me,
Though I believe the son’s last words were “I never asked for this.”
He was stuck to a stake or something like that.