I've Come to Bury Your God

A nameless nomad arrived in town around noon.

He wore a duster designed without mirth,

Boots built to besiege dark drifting,

Hat that hung shade across his sight,

And a long barreled shovel slung

Across his back that he took to trough earth.

As he dug, he mouthed, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Preacher with pressed slacks came to pick at the drifter.

On the whole, the holy man had skin drawn

To successfully stretch over his feeble frame.

“The spider seems to have your spirit, son,”

The preacher said with perfect pronouncement of shame.

“You are tomorrow, and I will not take

Tomorrow tainting the town of Yesterday’s blame.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

A glossy paged Bible and tossed it for earth’s claim,

Whispering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Businessman with a tie tried to buy the drifter.

For a sale, the salesman would always draft

His hair into a sand shaded, slippery knoll.

“I’d like to market your manner, my man,”

The businessman told with a melody like toll.

“Your mug could be on a lunch box---low price---

As long as your stock stays hot on Wallstreet like coal.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Golden coins carved by kids and sent them in the hole,

Muttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Politician with pride stood aside the drifter.

As a law, the lawman would always drag

His loose hair across his head like a nervous itch.

“Plant your rinds of revolt elsewhere, you fool,”

The politician complained with a pious pitch.

“Your voice is not the current currency

Since my civic duty is of a corporate niche.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Campaign pins for logos and plucked them in the ditch,

Uttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Reporter with spiked high heels hounded the drifter.

For the news, the newscaster always dressed

To bring some flash to a dull lead she might follow.

“Stand by your shovel and look sad, my star,”

The reporter requested in hope he’d wallow.

"Don’t speak and be cursed as Apollyon, but

Pose for me, and I can cast you as Apollo.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Narrow lensed cameras and flung them in earth’s hollow,

Explaining, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Army man with stripes sought to suppress the drifter.

Generally, the general had metals draped

From his passionless apparel like a proud slave.

“Move, or I’ll be forced to remove you, foe!”

The army man barked to badly mimic the brave.

“Do what I command for you are nothing,

And I take commands only from my sharpened stave!”

The drifter merely took from his duster

A bloodied flag without stars and gave it a grave,

Declaring, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

The gunslinger galloped out of town at midnight.

He wore a duster designed by the dire,

Boots born for destructive drifting,

Hat that hid the moon from his sight,

And a shovel slung on his back

When he traveled with a tall trail of fire.

As he rode, he warned, “I’ve come to bury your god.”