Inflatable

In a moment of emergency transfiguration
across the table from the holy host
dripping tears squozen from the very Pentecost
and sipping sacred milk from Kamadhenu in this decadent age.
Ours is the hope of safety within the walls of a craven climax wrested from behind
bullet-proof glass.
I just don't know what it feels like to be God.
I know not from whence the endorphins would flow;
Are you going to tell us?
Will we ever know?
I've just seen you at the end of the road,
in the reflection of sound on sound-
one might call it an echo of a memory, a syllable frozen within
the Om.
An inflatable, pulsating hope in a pink handbag,
but you couldn't keep it hidden from me for long;
not with that look on your face.