Like a child
Standing before his father's maker
He stood
Beholding his feathered cross

As an oval sunrise
His pupils grew
As if to draw more light
As if for reassurance
That this time
In this moment
He may relieve himself
Make-believe himself
Into his father's feathered cross

He entered
As a Vegas quarter
To spin the wheel
For his father's feathered cross

To cash in
On society's whim
Of coping with his loss

To make a man
Of putrid flesh
By drinking wine

To balance filth
By saving swine
And kneeling before his father's cross

He sings a song
To learn his mind
To save his race
With rape and pillage
To televise his worldly word
Like wind professing warmth

His hope is stagnant
For this feeds faith
And faith is all he needs
To grasp his father's feathered cross

His prophet learned to profit
To make-believe his past
And his descendants
Filled the ears
Of desperate souls
In need of something they can clasp

He has but what was once a whimper
Cloning In his veins
An emptiness
A loneliness
A mold for making models
Of his father's feathered cross