Sidewalk below the neon glow, slick with misplaced ale.
A prisoner of self, unable to run from what he ran to.
Now lay here, sick to the marrow, as the blurred faces
congeal in their laughter, only to become obfuscated
once more in the whirling street. Images at random
come of the naked, bleeding form of Christ’s final hour.
Branded from the metamorphosis, the scars gleam
on the paste white skin, and stir the dusts of memory.
Why this tragic stage? Why this prodigal’s second rebellion?
The old world ties stringing up the marionette, familiar song,
disparate man. These marks are clear, there was once
severance, and now again. Crawling behind towering stones of refuge,
and resting safe within the pain, free in it’s reality.
Wailing like a newborn, spilling cleansing streams of saline,
so stands the fallen.