Satan Killed God In His Bed

I sit on a throne made of chicken bones
with a scepter made of straw.
You kneel before me crying honey.
Clearly we’re in a dream.
The fan on my nightstand
encroaches upon my sleeping consciousness;
it becomes a buzzing beehive.
Or so we’re told inside this dream.
Lucid.
I say something.
You figure me out.
You say something depreciative.
I hear that. I eat that.
As we descend into deeper semantics.
You stand and we are equals.
We breadcrumb bubbles to the surface.
In a bar in Nevada in the 1840’s.
My scepter is absent and my pride becomes hubris.
I compliment my statement
with connective thoughts.
It lends credence to my depth.
Something fishy.
Suddenly it’s clear,
I’m not the man you thought I was.
The nuance escaped you.
Ha. Ha.
I was saying something different all along.
You pegged me short.
It’s the judgment that gets you wrong.


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