Cradle

The god about the microphone
exhales the finest octave
of this moment
(all time)
of this place
(all space)
as the crowds they
sway and chant their shared pain.
The god
who is big and black and doe-eyed
summons all the precious music
from his lungs again
and again and again!
as the trumpeteer he
lambasts his feral roar
as the cellist she
strums her sublime shriek.
The god and I
drift in silence
on the skiff built of his passion
seeking his sad siren's song
beautiful beyond description
transcendent beyond recognition
an ethereal beauty not heard
since the days of Mozart or David.
When there is nowhere left to go
I drink of his tears
so that the god does not drown
alone.

The god about the microphone
releases a primal bellow
that shears my soul
from my mind
to in dazed freedom fall
down down down to heaven
a quiet place
where we might roam forever
I and the god together;
he takes me gently
into his hairy bosom and cradles
my timid soul
with sweaty palms
and a breath of spirits
murmuring absently
in a language begetting a lost time
of simplicity
and abundance.
Yet still I dream
of widows' unheard wailing
of the weary's urgent whispers,
I suffer with tortured and tortures alike,
my head filling with the melancholy ecstasy
I normally hide within my House of Shame
the dusty corners of my brain.
But just as it pierces
as it surfaces
saws and slices
this suffering cannot hold me
for I am held
within the gentle benevolence
of that which is mighty
and a simper
the god frees me
of the notion that my misery is real
and he reminds me
that I am nothing
and everything I create
he will with love let crumble.