Ragged, torn, beaten,
they mourn.
Time withered the powerful.
They cannot with stand their creation.
Gasping to stand-with but they heeled.
Their guise peeled,
as they peeled God.
The bloody,
feet trenched forward.
Clasping for a light in their defeat.
Their palms up,
they turned and propelled,
extending their flesh.
Knee to chest.
Their chin parallel to their gaze.
Drawing their last breath,
as the Apex.
What they replaced,
is now what they wear.
A Punching mask,
with quivering lips behind it.
They stand.
The imposter of God.
Check,
in the game of progression chess.
Patience was their distinct virtue,
their present to colour,
their gift to culture.
Now words for books.
The imposter,
imposed greatness,
opening doors that they could never dip a toe,
nor peer.
Retired quivering lips,
resigned tears.
They kneeled again
and bare face.
Exposed they read their books they had written.
Through the doors not fit for imposters –
Exists,
the entity they wished to be.
Daunting.
Cosmic in presence.
Magnetic.
There flows an invisible God.
Green Dharma 