miserere i

by Donald Kuspit

days of dubious glory,
                              the world crowning
me with its thorns,
                           the empty urgency
of the inevitable
                         taking its toll on time.
furrowed by clouds
                          of conscience,
the sky is miserable
                            with silence,
the gods abandoned
                          in the void,
left to rot
               in the infinite.
o sun blind
               me with your pity,
shine through my skin
                             that i become
an angel
            in my own darkness,
my skull as holy
                    as the heaven
that once was,
                  strangers meditating
on it in search
                   of saintliness,
nothing left to worship
                               but their own deaths,
mine leading them
                         into foreordained oblivion.