He Poem by Peter Swan

he hung there like a fake Rembrandt
beautiful but false
his slender arms stretched
his legs delicately crossed
the beauty of his body raised before me
an unwilling shroud
the blood from his forehead
moistened his lips as he raised his head
and said to me

God is dead! God is dead! tell the people so
the future dies with me
and your father never was
and your prayers remain unanswered
just lonely echos in the blanket of silence