The rings on his fingers were golden chunks set with onyx
His hair draped like a thin black veil around his head
Hardly hanging on at the crown.
He stood like a string puppet on the stage
Limbs all angles, motioning to the audience
Come closer please, and hold your breath
The first three rows stand and swarm
Their seats and minds forgotten
As the puppet starts to sing.
With the beat of the drum the crowd moves and sways
Directed by the puppet, mastered by the strings
A murmur, a muttering lyrical cry
And the vibrating clash of the church chime
The staggering puppet man points
With a crumpled floating arm
And goads the congregation
Who tremble and shake like mad things.
When is it over? It is never over.
The higgs boson does not bend for time
And the power of the puppet never dies.
The transmogrified antipodean poet will return
Or so the papers say.
The sky never falls, but is pushed away.