Like a reborn Gulliver,
Meccano-wanking machine strapped between his legs,
He dreams of his next day with God.
He can hardly wait but knows he must.
In between times—to fill the gaps that yawn between his audiences with the King—he lolls in fantasies, making a dreary scrapbook:
Pictures captured from the past,
Dingy images of the sad and hopeless,
Traces in the sand that he has walked on.
As for the rest—the ants, all that are not the One, or parts of his drab collage—he might invite to play.
Sometimes he allows time between his meetings with the Master, so they can work a little for him.
They may wind up the mechanism of his machine,
They may play with the levers and bolts and spin the cogs that keep his in-fill world in motion.
If they entertain him they may use their puny strength to pull the wires that lift the ring at the head of the terrible device;
To try and ooze a muddy drip, and spawn a giggle of feigned delight.
Then, when the time gets closer—when the Emperor calls—he swots them away with disdainful ignorance and consoling statements of his inability to care.
