Thursday, November 21, 2013

Onto flesh and blood

It’s all a lie, they
See what they want to see
These little games they play
When there is nothing else to believe
Gods have to be crafted, eagerly
Hammer and chisel onto flesh and blood

Every piece they cut, adding a pile of  
Grief to his bleeding heart, determinate,
To be part of the common
Of martyrs
Drawn into the very act of self-destruction

Because that is the only way
Out of their hell, this swamp
Conserving all those who bogged
Into breathless conversations about
Right and wrong
And letters of indulgence