Dead?

God is dead?
Old Friedrich may have presaged it but
He is still in his wracking death throes
he will not go gently
into that night
into which we plunge
ourselves.
He’s in his wracking, shivering death throes,
grabbing our sleeves, white-knuckled in his gnarled arthritic claws,
crying for the mother he never had,
rending his hair,
tearing at his own chest,
cursing his own heart
his own children,
begging them,
“Tell them I said something…”