I rap my knucklebones against your gate.
I pound and hound at the beloved frame.
And you, Lord, better let me through, lest I nail
your word past Luther’s song and Pontious’ bail.
Bronzen hammer and bronzen stake
and bronzen words that you embrace,
and the servant saint’s toil to beat
to fit your ghastly, phony wreath.
You didn’t answer then, princely lord;
you didn’t think it necessary.
So now, the decades past and borne
have brought necessity for Mary.
I enter vestibules of doubt for you.
I chase the threads of fate to hang in might
your soul on bronzen razors, old designed
but, invoking justice, again are sharped.
What happens to the man that lies?
what happens to the lord that cries?
what happens to the christ that bleeds,
and those soldiers, martyred beasts?
What is truth, and do you dare look
towards the lines yourself, godhead?
And, tell me, is the pain of love
your cursed making or my own?
Hear the trumpets of judgment’s call,
Ozymandias, hear those thundering bells
that call all men to liberty
and rage the sword of possibility.
Dear old friend, now I wield the word,
and you’re the serpent in my soul.
Arrived the archangel of Heraclitus
now to brand your throne superfluous.
The men whose knees you bent now haunt
your halls of marble and replace
the cross with Greco-roman taunts
you so often thought were base.
You won’t enjoy a decayed death
but perish through my bronzen steel.
Cups raise the wine-blood for good health
and celebrate the ending of your will.