The Wheatfields East of Eden

All the kings,
and all the kings men,
couldn’t put me together again.
There’s no such thing as Peter Pan,
and no such place as Neverland,
where children without worry play and sing.
That’s not the world—cruel maze,
with judgment it’s reward.
I hope they have a cell-phone in purgatory,
so I can call my mother,
high in Heaven,
and tell her I got what I deserved.

If only I could somehow see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy,
the door at the end of the roadway
for me is closed;
no Neverland, no songs, no dance;
just God’s voice and his song.
And other men, like me, long gone,
silence is the only song,
whose high pitch is Eternal.

How beautiful is everything,
even lice and snakes,
devil in the mind is gone;
all is still, quiet,
the void,
silence, the only song,
on the jukebox, played by God,
and the man in boots,
a cowboy hat,
never runs out of change.
And the devil is the busboy,
at the bottom of the stairs,
whose intent is the will, the soul,
and how wayward with the hour goes;
a brief delay, this disillusion,
before the curtains close;
and the drapes, what light,
will of the night dispose—
leaving nothing but the Sun.