Trimalchio

Born under another name


In another place, in another time
The man who would be God
In the downtrodden west his home
Destined to be nothing
Determined to be something
Before the battlefield he became
Another, a hero, a victor

On eagles wings he raised himself up
From the burnt out ashes of nothingness
He made himself a God of material things
Imposing his will on the world as he pleased
Ordering and reordering, imposing and dominating
Until…he became man, at the hands of a dainty flower
His wings turned to ash and to earth he spiraled
Down, down, down, down, down
Returned to mortality
Reduced to ash

Like a phoenix he was reborn
Drawing himself from the ashes again
With the might of a dream behind him
Remaking himself with money and things
Moving east, being extravagant, living it up
Until he flew too high, into the sun
His eyes raised towards the heavens above

He spiraled down, down, down, down
Once more, this time for good. Defeated
By one with whom he had no quarrel
Landing in water on a cushion of air
He lay floating his arms spread
Like his eagles’ wings
His eyes raised towards the place
From whence he fell
As if to ask “why?”

He left behind naught but a dream
The dream of a world behind him
To his dream millions hearken
Towards the light over the water
To the east with the rising sun
Which would sink where it all began
In the homely, quiet west.