God Sent Me Here To Die Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Relatively speaking,
I am cold,

Made out of gemstones,
But I am not bold-

Neither beautiful, nor quite old.

I ride a bicycle made from a special
Mold,

And all my love is sold to buy
A frame of fool’s gold-

Sold my soul and got my machine,

I circle the neighborhood on a lark,
I go round and round it,
The working class garden of ancient,
Rusting park,

Where she was last of told-
I cry somnolent in the stain-glassed
Dark.

I’m worse in a fight,
Here where the nocturnal scavengers
Forage on the helpless flowers,
Those beds where soft-terrapin sleep
Retracted and un-supposed;

And I imagine her dancing without any clothes,
But she’s either gone shopping or
Migrated to University,
Over the sea but alone-

Made out of gemstones
Quarried from
Recaptured atolls,
I ride my bicycle of worried
Spoke,

Hapless,
Remote-

She’s left by the highway
Which is, of course,
Long, empty,
But her right.

I am neither beautiful nor bold-
She is far away, and everything-
And the night is so very cold.