The prison records show he was too young to hang,
but still he swung; became motionless after a while,
as the Sunday suits turned away, heads nodding;
metronomic, tick tocking and tongue clucking in concert.
But that’s what sticky tape is; a disguise;
and ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’
is just so much add on engineering that cannot hide the
trapdoor leading to the day of reckoning.
Then again, perhaps it’s just cynicism on my part,
like the man who desires what he cannot have
casts doubt when love’s ardour fails;
‘it never bothered me anyway.’ says he.
Of course, good sense may eventually prevail
and we will again feed sea birds from the hand;
men’s eyes will open and see the green of grass,
all this may come to pass before the last atom fuses.
But if it doesn’t, if all that is left goes unharvested
and the ghosts that gather have their wicked way;
then true it will show, that dressed or undressed,
man was snake made manifest.