Prodigal Son

Must return.
Must return to this place of skull drudgery.
A place to fixate upon uninitiated love.

This poem ain’t for Elvis, I did that long ago.
This poem ain’t for Jesus, I can not roll away that stone alone.
This poem is for Peter Pan and I refuse to grown up.

The Prodigal Son must return to the town in which he or she was first deemed nonredeemable.
The Prodigal Son stands alone in the rubble of a civilization it refuses to prop up any longer with rusted excuses and unholy bones.
I know the world must end and I’m not all that concerned as I wrestle with my own angels and wish I had a sharper sin to cut my throat open with.

The Prodigal Moon looked directly into the Sun and went deliciously insane from the wickedness of a betrayer’s opened mouth kiss.
You were warned if you looked back you would turn into a pillar of poor ratings.
You were told exactly how the deal would go down so don’t feign ignorance now when the Earth decides to pack it all in.

He is the Alpha and the Omega.
He is the Ascension and the Dispensation.
He is the first bastion of hope and the last call in the middle of another dispossessed alcohol soaked Siberian winter.

Must return.
We’re all on trial.
Our red, white and blue mask is showing its age and has lost whatever moral compass it may have believed it once possessed.

Charles Cicirella
December 13, 2009