Zen Dolls

God came to me,
an effigy.

The relentless me, anatomically correct, Ken doll underdressed for
cold
I dare contest,

lit the fabric, releasing
black magic that
prophesized
death would come forth
an eventuality
rather than mentality,
a philosophical fallacy as there ever was.

I feel as blessed as pin and needles could, my most plastic parts asleep.

And numb runs deep, in
shoes and bare feet,
pain down my arm in the sweetest of moments;
appreciation frozen in place it was
last laid down
to increase its value.

Burn me until you’re blue in the face, but brace yourself for necromancy to wake,
my Nero razing Rome,
using fire to
conjure thoughts of home,

no matter how many decades it consummates.

My constitution may abate your endeavours, but has soul you will never break.

If this is fated, give dissenters their day, but never trade your neo-classic center

for arson’s lust.

In
God we
trust,
at least until He can’t do our entitlements justice.

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