Madman

Standing cold before the barren,
Landscape at dawn's first sliver,
Eye of mind and gelatin blues,
Closed, contemplate, and quiver,
What monsters rise with the wind,
What calls the spine to shiver,
Before the chasm.

Waiting for Jesus, or for Godot,
Doubting Thomas, or turncoat Judas,
Waiting with the holy or the derelict,
Confused in a tale without codas,
Wearied of certainties of the certain,
In endless chapters, verses, Suras,
Spoken to the chasm.

And as the stars race from the bang,
And over ages move into darkness,
The cold around and in us steels,
The truth in the love we profess,
As divinity dies don't our souls,
Now ragged wander in state of undress,
Reeling over the chasm.

The prophets, poets, see their bones,
The pilgrims gnaw and suck the marrow,
What breathed visions, words, warmth,
In their song, sweet as the sparrow's?
Where they now without flesh, or sinew,
Chant their dirge of deepest sorrow,
Across the chasm.

But now the night is lit with neon,
Toys, and sex, and glitter demons,
They numb memories of a greater lamp,
In pleasures urbane or abominations,
And the crowds, like rats to a piper,
Blowing in bones played to distraction,
Fall into the chasm.

I have come too early,
So few are capable,
To carry the weight,
of these times.

The lantern is out.