There are times, exceptional and true,
that none can fathom from a practical
point of view. An era born by you,
the ephemeral one, the magical
son of a rich eccentric that knew
well enough around all things mystical.
Your name being writ with a star's breath,
sensitive to beggars and prophecy
while rising above questions of death
by quieting those sworn to secrecy.
Each crossroad leads to a lithe prism
where wedding bells and a gown of torn silk
are held under false nails that schism
'tween the Alpha, the Omega, the ilk,
banished through a malapropism
uttered by a holy man bathed in milk.
Saint John the Televangelist
