Celestial Nomads
Quarter centaurian bemused in a room full of critics -
arguing about how heaven on earth is better viewed from a distance.
But first - what is heaven? Is it cartoonishly vintage -
portraying antagonist opportunists as villains?
If subterfuge had a visage would it be a man in a robe?
Would he travel the globe in lieu of a sickness?
What is his Conquest, if not movement and minutes -
Just a white horse, arguably soon to diminish.
Is he the antagonist because of his ruse and his spirit,
or because his path allowed assuming the privilege?
What if heaven was invented by a new algorithm?
Neo with a keyboard creates the unruly and mystic.
Time created in cyber space that's smooth with the pixels -
animates the human condition in a matrix of lines and shades.
He's the ruler who's faceless, but white and gray,
speaking a coded language the ciphers rave.
Binary hailstorms influence situations as right as rain,
while terraforming the plain in the light of day.
The self-proclaimed protagonist in training just scribes away -
and even believes in the anxious mistypes he's made.
What if heaven is an idea and art is the passage?
Picture a guy in a cloak passing out his carcass at Masses -
dried harder than crackers*
(pardon the asterisks.)
Slovenly solemn during his disheartened theatrics.
His journey: painterly - in his cart is the canvass -
that somehow gets digitized to meet the most modern of standards.
A quasi-prophet trekking mountains larger than average
who graffiti's himself as a martyr of clamor.
Carpenter.
Hammer.
Swinging his point of view
until he hits the nail on the head and pins his void to you.
To see a mountain reach the heavens is a fervent lift,
but which is more important: seeing it or getting to interpret it?
If seeing is believing then where's the magic in
being doomed if you visit? Spare the sadness and,
in a room full of critics, be amused by the children
that understand heaven is better viewed from a distance.