Apotheosis

   
He called it God…  
That restless estuary where pain streams into possibility.  
I remember it as a green rivulet settled deep beneath his eyes.  
 Struggling like an autumn wasp through the scarred landscape of his face  
down into the wells of Africa; beyond the emulous storms of his birth.    
Life's poison rising. His jaundice yellowing in defiance. Never once seeking out a shy or peaceful shelter in the momentary    
isles of time, he walked fearless over the coral blades of sense.    
   
Born a roach;  
a sword in the eye of the flesh and thus immune to our scope of archaic principle.  
I remember when he exchanged his chains for death.  
The scattering of his infusion ; the whispers of mettle when he lifted from this life.  
Mostly, I remember my silence. It came from a strange admiration. An envy I had over intimate wars, every battle    
waged, enacted with cruel incision. Retracting the rotting hands from bleach and swirling breath; his  
end became a minute beginning; a place of holism, rising beneath old bitter roots, submerged in self-wants.  
Reduced to what separates us from our keel.  
   
He called it God…  
but if you ask me, this was His moment of Apotheosis.