The Coming
When He comes looking,
No one's gives a fig,
Then, withered from the roots,
The carcass dons a wig.
She's desolate, abominable,
With aching loins for heaven
That only can be filled
In multiples of seven.
Someone told the not-so-holy mount
To throw itself into the sea.
It burning falls with serpent's hiss,
Taking with it one in three.
Water poisoned with the dust
Of ground up images of lust,
A bitter star from marquee falls
Into my glass twixt curtain calls.
Another mountain takes its place,
The one on which the sun's His face,
Where kingdom came in clouds back then,
Still waiting for the faith of men.