Jonathan’s Deathbed

Jonathan’s deathbed was strewn with salvation in

gadgets and gizmos that soiled his mattress with

beating his hammer against his new heart made of

iron and stealing the warmth of his ring.

Fiddling, jittering, spluttering, crying

his name like a love-song,

a meaningless

thing.

Molly, his wife, would pursue his creation with

care and affecting mathematic precision to

better her dear husband’s still-mortal guess.

Fearless and shameless and hopeless, pathetically

wanting no more and

expecting no

less.

Tim was their orphan, withdrawn with elation at

endless results embryonically won.

Perfect formation and heartless damnation

as Paradise offers

a thrice-empty

shun.

Death’s minstrel followed this path of destruction to

find out their instrument, plucked on its string with his

cold rubber fingers and let their priest bless by its

psalmodic tone—only heaven can sing.

Parodied mastery, pantomime mystery

ruled their ambitions, now dead and now done with

since no-one remembers—no—

nobody heard from that

bullet-proof hideout their

life’s melody.