Someone Is Hitting A Replica Piñata Of Me Poem by Mark Heathcote

Somewhere, someone is praying to an unknown entity
for guidance and some kind-of good versus evil parity
living on Bottleneck highway facing Death Avenue
with a sixth sense; they-too once knew Michelangelo,
they turpentine his brushes and posed in the nude
lying cumbersome, they were gazing up at the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel when out of some fiery blue clouds
appeared the devil, and he too had on no-garbed apparel
and like a petulant child tore up a scarlet red rose tree;
said, he who doesn't believe in me,
will in petal wilt and fire burn,
he who doesn't appreciate my apparitions
they shall experience horrors beyond their limited imagination.
They shall be gargoyles sleeping on every street corner
and like a cankerous apple, their fruit will rot year-on-year
for in truth, opposites always appear when you pray,
when praying to an unknown entity to rescue the day.
But in truth, don't believe a single word you say.
I hear a loud clatter and feel my heart leap and think
somewhere, someone is hitting a replica piñata of me
it must be where all the ghouls of my life hang out.
But then, looking back in the mirror, I see only myself.