I once rubbed a crucifix to know
what it was like to be touched by Christ.
It wasn't warm.
He wasn't warm.
He was rusty metal.
A relic.
A man who has long since died.

One day that will be me.
A long lost artifact
Or photograph, that
will be stuffed in a drawer
next to a book and some condoms.

Wherefore art the shadows chased
Far into the recesses of the past?
The world is sans perception
With them wilted into retreatment.
Thither - they that matter.
All else exist for their splendor.
I long to see them frolic, once again,
As did that wild lorneful and youthful creature,
When I was he.