I stand in a crowded parlor of stain-glass windows.
Surrounded by Rainbow Christs crowned in hemp.
In the corner sits Lao Tzu, in a tweed jacket that wreaks of mothballs,
Talking mildly of quarterly earnings reports with Buddha.
The former Joseph Smith Jr. just got new gauges.
She smiles, her braces flashing in the smoky room.
As I enter, a crumpled and toothless old man introduces himself as Muhammad
And politely inquires as to whether I want any cookies.
“They’re snicker doodles” he says, “I made them myself"
Meanwhile, Moses and Abraham hold hands preaching
“Down with God and Bill O’Reilly” over a game of pool.

In the rainswept city lie
Wannabe beatnicks strung out
On fantasies of martyrdom

Awake and alive in a crowded room,
They suffer self-imposed secrecy.
They whisper mantras of Fitzgerald
While drowning in green label jack.
They frown upon the instagram
Girls bedecked in pencil skirts
Of centennial imagery. "It’s petty"
They cry from their lonely mountaintops.

Folk is a fanfare; flannel
a robe of imperial purple.
As an invisible emperor he reigns
Over his plebeians. He sneers
His verdicts, chin held high.
The unwitting peasantry pay
No head, but he does not mind
His ambiguity is his throne
And silence his scepter.

Jovial laughter, sweet serenity fills the happy hall.
But looking on, they turn their backs to the warmth
Preferring the company of raindrops.

The martyr is a creature of rock and a beast of burden.

The stones he carries are his own. They are sown into his pockets next to his bottles of whispers. The familiar texture of the rock, like the embrace of an old friend, comforts him. Little does he know the stones he cherishes scuttle his soul.

Deeper and deeper he goes, and the lust for air ricochets against the inner walls of his skull and carves his face like a blade to warm butter. But he doesn’t mind. He bears his agony on his sleeve, a badge of honor from a war that was lost before it began.

He’s crucified on a cross of hope, holding out for the view of the surface he will never see again.

To him, hope is a challenge, hope is a virtue, and virtue is a vanity for the martyr is nothing if not vain.

But even as the darkness encloses around him he finds solitude. To him, this is a worthy drowning.