Marathon

A man lay downtrodden, blackened & scorned,

Prostrate at the empire wall;

He poured himself out, like meal to the mill,

And the universe, cold, watched him fall.

He blanched at dissentors, soldiers, and chiefs,

Strew ashes out over the crown;

He silently cried as he bled & he died,

Late whispering unto the ground:

"The stars are immaculate eyes of god,

Their photons a sacrament rain;

Naked are we, his stray organs, arrayed -

The infinite cut into twain.

We are the piecemeal fruits of a season,

Skins pulverized, bludgeoned & blue;

Puppets plucked up from our root & our vine,

Bereft of the bed where we grew.

I saw the casualty rot in his couch,

The dead left the dead to their dogs;

And the river flowed down, irridescent & brown,

Full of bodies, dollars, and cogs.

On the slate-soiled back of our globe we're borne round,

Cursed to travail the black night,

Bound to repeat the cruel orbit once more,

As we plummet to the pupil of light.

We fly to our common center,

Our vessels fallen & frail,

But I look to the sky, for I know we are nigh,

And reflecting star glory, prevail."