I am an ugly God by the windowpane,
coloring the glass of Wolfsbane Street Church red.
I am self-aware enough
to know what I would like
to see,
to hear,
and to want.
That I-
I am done.
And He,
my very own maker,
sees me now
in the velvet light,
silky as sin.
That I-
and I see Him
at the door.
My own maker,
unlovelier than ever.
On my knees,
I sit beside the lilac altar,
recounting my alms,
largesses,
and humanity.
That I-
there are only nine.
Seven on my right,
and two on the other.
My pinky is broken;
but do I know that it is?
That I-
I cry.
I see Him again,
but He is now behind me,
and His hand is resting
on my shoulder.
I turn
to face Him.
That I-
He looks much more beautiful
than I want to admit.
He is tanner than an Andalusian Moor,
His eyes darker than lust,
and has the face of a boy
I had loved as a child.
That I-
and He is dressed
in the robes of pink
He knew I only wore.
A new color, I realize.
from the blues and blacks
He had put on before,
He was a post-masculine monstrosity,
and not one for our times.
That I-
and He is aware.
Like many before me.
He had heard the whispers
of hate
That I-
it is what I like to think.
It does not mean much,
but I know
it is his new form.
Femininity in
a modern man.
And is this the one
I have loved
for the past year?
I relish his body,
but I do not see Him.
That I-
because I now feel fathered
another time,
just as He did me before.
And for Him to be here,
another time,
just as He did before,
inside my house
another time,
just as He did before.
He was the one I had loved,
but here He is anew,
and He's making the memories of Him
a problem moot,
and riddled with holes.
And I do not like them ruined.
That I-
He opens his mouth,
and I adjourn to listen.
But they are a sorrowful symphony,
music to my ears,
and they come to me,
so the lilac altar glows.
You are too plagued with emotionality
for me
to love again, He says.
That I-
I cry more.
And I do not
need you anymore.
I have everything
I can
possibly want
and more, He goes on.
It is pitiful.
He really is unlovelier than ever.
I gather fast,
and I am befell
with the unspoken words I wish to say.
That I-
I can only mumble.
Do not
say more, I say.
I can see it on His face;
He judges me willingly,
even in the same clothes as I.
It is peculiar.
Was this what He had thought
all this time?
It is peculiar.
That I-
He does not feel like
the same man as before.
The one I had painted as a god,
the maker of my creation,
my godhead,
is gone.
That I-
so I cry harder.
And with the plashes of my tears,
the lilac altar fades,
becoming a dying light.
It is peculiar.
Was the lilac altar mine?
Was it His?
It vanishes.
That I-
he vanishes.
That I-
Paradise was seeing him again.
That I-
it is lost.
That I-
I am no longer God by the windowpane.
That, I know of.
