Indigo is the gaunt damp face of the still-born messiah. With crude-oil cappillary flush like mottled blush On Treblinka cheek bones. On cold steel autopsy table, It's topsy turvy shrine, A halogen lamp halo hums and sways Over It's holy rolling head. Unsavory savior, the pundit spared It's pageant. With blackhole pupils pierced and seeping Vitreol fluid like the weeping ******'s tears, Carving termite trails in their wake. It trembles, gasps, and quakes With the knowledge of futility. All that was and all that will Successively unsuccessfully. A parade of steel tables on blood spattered conveyer belt, Pulled to the symphony of six billion bellowed pleas for salvation, Through tattered curtains to uncertainty.