No One Hears But Him Poem by Patti Masterman

No one hears but him-
Whom we crafted, out of sawdust and molten ores
And wrote for him vast tomes of history, in back of our colorful imaginings.
He's white or black or eurasian as needed,
Changing races like a cloak; superseding all of them in the end-

The additive colors, of a god's dispersal to the outer regions:
Candles he requires, sometimes incense, and many beads;
He slides upon beads, like angelic feet over water,
A hundred beautiful names and soon he appears,
Or call out only one-

We see him at death, in spectral mansions;
We see his reflection, mirrored in our synapses
Until we have dissolved, back into the pool of souls-