From insignia, God, the druid,
Exiled himself into a banished dream,
Clutched between a homeless man’s guitar strings.

Battered on bleeding tar,
Broken jaws on Tiananmen Square,
From a three-legged chair, feeding chants into the frightened crowd.

Dumbfounded God, baffled how
He made me cry when sat alone
Homeless in a mosque, reading my yawns out of the rising sun.

In cryptic verse, he sang me asleep.
Then, woke himself from the Kabbalah bed I made for him
And left to embrace my aunt, who mourned the child she lost to heroin-needle death.

In prison, God was stripped of doubt.
He watched his children anguish in inferno screams,
And was forced to tip toe death, whilst staring down the pistol’s midnight threats.

God hid his scars from tyrant tales,
And lingered on the final basement steps.
Outside the palace golden walls, his dreams were fed to guard-dog pets.

Hysterical, God dropped his cane,
And stormed out of the desert winds,
And woke me up before the Stint could chirp the sun rays into my day.

From the thundering rain,
He asked if I could shelter him.
I heard despair in his quavered words, and so I made a bed for him on my fingertips.

When morning came,
His body cold, he died a peaceful death.
All that remains, his eulogy, and tales of sorrow-forlorn hope, scattered across Orion’s Belt.