He pretends to be like you,
do "you" things,
say "you" things,
politely nods and smiles.
A person exits his vision,
and his face changes,
grows a little grimmer,
and he loses himself in thought.
Switching mythoi around
like playing cards,
he pulls one out,
and tosses it at the world.
"Take this," he scoffs,
as ghosts flit around
the parking lot of souls,
lost on his empire Earth.
Today is a ghost day.
Today we'll have ghosts;
maybe a ghost will scare someone,
but tomorrow they'll be gone.
Poison cults and sharp blue eyes;
a void inside that never dies;
angels don't attend his cries:
sharpened words for spiteful lies.
Eternal words as time goes by;
banal Lord of the flies;
angry sighs at Russian spies
he cannot help but despise.
The superman will have a word,
the superman's above the Word,
the superman's beyond the Word,
the superman's a dark, black bird.
The superman's a dark, black bird.