When I was a little man,
with eyes so bright and wide,
I’d gaze upon the panes, where
God did frolic and abide. Each star
a spark of wonder, each stain a
divine throne, Where gargoyles
watched…our slumbers, … our gu-
ardians made of stone. And the
arches of the heavens, they’d
whisper tales of yore, Where
angels danced amongst the
hanged heads and doors. Just outside grounded men and their
mechanical wraiths. Dreamed, and toiled, while draining my childlike
faith. But as seasons turned, the gold to rust, The skies to ash, the tales
to dust. Where once I saw the foot prints in the sand. Now lay a jungle
where the angels have been damned. The heavens grew hollow, the
stars grew dim, My soul no longer felt their sacred hymns. But my hun
-ger could not be ignored, For the answers that my heart once
adored. Creatures, beasts and leather freaks were welco
-med in. With dissections with dirty scalpels, boards,
and pins. Even we can’t raise the dead. But science will keep them in our stead.
I miss the days when beasts did talk. When faith was more than hopes of livestock. Where giants fell and fairies could fly. And when the angels would never lie. Before we enslaved his holy hymns, And bent them back like his son’s limbs. Back when we could wonder. Before our insightful blunder. Our faiths so wrongly squandered.
I chased his ghost through our hanging tree’s swaddle. Only to find my spirit’s salvation in a bottle. Greet the beasts with amber laced flame filled waste, leave the creatures chained, to be basted in the oily paste of the leather freaks’ faces and debodied waists. A child’s taste underscored by that sweet childlike faith chased down by the oh so intimate warm embrace of Smirnoff’s aftertaste.
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