On the edge of the center between the stirring and the creep lies
the sanctum of stillness,
the priest of pastimes,
the godless prophet and the prophetless god.
Missing is not so much accepted as it is ingrained,
the fabric that ties his message void of meaning within himself is irreplaceable,
inescapable.
Without it,
his discipleship would certainly unwind as he heals from absence.
He demands no means and he seldom receives it.
He provokes no fear and his weapon of unease is forever sheathed.
His stance and his spirit scattered long ago,
and redemption is inadmissible under penalty of life.
He is still.
He is not calm.
His worship is lacking
and through lacking
he worships
nothing
and himself
and nothing once more.
His cause is causeless
and his prayers are silent
and carefully unanswerable.
His god is dead
and alive
and buried.
Split from himself is his soul.
Sinking is his only stay.
In his cave he weeps and weeps for weeping.
“Win my heart,
boy.
Hold me close,
boy.
Please come home,
boy.”
