Like clockwork each day
Near the edge
Of the bay
A little old man arrives
He sits down in the grass
Watches boaters fly past
And fishers go on
With their lives

All around the people
Rush about in a hurry
Without a word or even
A stare
To a man with scarred skin
Papered over weak bone
Deep wrinkles
And snowy white hair

His name is James
Though I’m sure you don’t care
But once was a time it meant something
Somewhere
The war has been won
History left it behind
Yet it continues to play
Inside of James’ mind

The stage has been set
Nature anxiously waits to see
How the Earth intends
To transform a seed into a tree

Cloaked beneath the soil
Hidden far from sight
Strengthened by the rains
Nourished by the light

And perhaps magic does exist
Just undetected to the human eye
Because that tiny little seed
Has now risen to the sky

∅☢☯✰✿⚥∅☯✰✿☠☯✰

Religion, you harlot and ****** of the masses

I smell the stagnation you bring upon earth.

Gold becomes lead, in stained roseate glasses

diluting, corrupting, negating its worth.

Hierarchical structure and pseudo-anointing

seem holy— but prove antithetic to Christ

whose transparently sure apostolic appointing

began a new age, and sufficed.

I renounce you, religion. Your temples lie fallen…

the future arises from ruins, ever new.

Mere human unrighteous momentum must stall

when the truth spins around into view.

He was scorned, he was vilified; slain for your sin

Abrahamic philosopher, healer and friend

yet perceived as demoniac right to the end.

His beginning is here in your heart. Never fear:

Dead religion must perish for true love to win.

Hermeneutics imploding—His coming is near