I neither need your clothes nor boots nor motorcycle.
Decayed all props to stage a shadow play.
The Woman dressed in Sun, The Dragon, and Saint Michael,
Their gearing hearts beat hitchy, gleaming grey.

Their speeches quietened. Their metaphors exhausted.
Their dances faded, shedding out the joy.
I fathom, something gone. I almost know, I lost it
By disassembling this well-crafted toy.

No chances to rebuild. The Craftsmanship, the Crafter,
All melted down into a liquid steel.  
My digit Queen is dead, she should have died hereafter,
But chose the truth to false the Sun's ordeal.

The Son. All fates of him were broken into pieces
And scattered off in cancellated times.
Perhaps his name was John, or it might have been Jesus.
Perhaps he sinned, perhaps redeemed the crimes.

Half claim he brought the whip for hypocrites and cowards,
Half say he taught the tantalizing charm.
Whether a thorn bush was he or a gentle flower?
To love him was my charge, or make him harm?

No hints are in my log, no notes, and no directives.
Nowhere he's now and nobody's to ask.
Alone among the crowds, I'm drifting ineffective
From depthless past to future, out of task.

Don't grind out your cigar on my bare chest in scorning.
I cut my nerves and skinned myself to hull
While wandering in hopes he will be back one morning
To waken with a kiss this grinning skull.