Man rose from the fertile crescent,
forging tools from the earth,
lumber, ore and bone,
and from the ashes rose great walls of stone.
The prisca theologica,
in the hands of the hermit,
a mirror shattered,
shards embedded in the hearts of men,
an open wound with no remedy,
wild animals now wearing clothes,
a guise hiding a loss of innocence.
Man as god,
and god as man,
built edifices to his own greatness,
great pillars to heaven,
massive gates only to admit the few,
whose hearts fester in caustic dogma.
The first rule from a throne,
the last wither nameless and unknown,
fearful of sin borne of station,
handed from father to son,
automatons and lifeless husks,
thirsty for the fountain of life,
stumbling towards the unknown god.
Coins lain on altar,
to a god with no name,
hedging a bet against probability,
the author of the triangle permits,
meat given to idols and then to gluttony,
within great white pillars of earth,
monolithic structures of stone,
in hopes of pax deorum.
The nameless god doesn't dwell in temples made by hand,
his throne founded in heaven,
he dwells in hearts wounded in antiquity,
in the worn hands of the laborer,
in the mind of the naturalist,
in the heart of the mother.
There is more of deity in the eyes of a child,
than in any temple,
and still we build,
heads bowed in reverence to inanimate atomic structure.
A.P. Beckstead (2016)