How many centuries have we spent now,
bent down?
Brown mud caking these
brittle knees.
Unmade in the eyes of a perfect being,
and he won’t die,
and lie in that grave with the others.
His forgotten brothers.
A welcome emaciated mass of sun bleached death.
Tossed without ceremony left to be lost like the rest.
Frail and undone when the cleansing light sends its test.
Pale and empty of substance when exposed.
Set to rest and decompose.
And we’re unimpressed.
These hypnotized liars walk lines along cliff edges.
Lost in their mind because those before them said it.
Handed a song, ages old, told to walk in faith alone.
On the precipice dancing on the edge, but they forget it.
Stone erodes and poses pressing tones below
Stressing more and more the floor supporting guests, upon depressing roads.
Paths corrode as cracks along the edge show
growing tortured gravel patches,
bound to pour out scores,
when rainfall carries
laughing dancers to the bones.
We’re fed up, jaded, and broken,
so let us take a moment.
Leave the solemn words
we’ve spoken on the graves.
Turn the token cliche prose
we lay on corpses into social currency for future days when those who question us impose an accusation;
“Why didn’t you help”
“By myself?” replies the bystander
Surprised to find the eyes
of a man turned squarely into his,
with tears colliding with his hand,
as fingers press into his eyes again.
“You watched as masses shielded vision and passed
Not but an inch from within the wind of your breath
Without so much as a whispering bid for reason.
You laughed in the ignorant faces of men and women perceiving yourself apart, or above, and seeded in yourself a pride that grew out into treason.
Leaving your fellow man unbreathing now.
Hallow and bleeding out.
Just like the fallen deities you love to mock so ******* much.
Mock them when they pray too hard but stay just as blind as they are because not speaking is just as awful as appalling preaching and you know such”
The bystander feels
Shaking ground, though metaphoric ground this time,
below his euphoric purpose driven apathy.
“This is how it has to be”
He pleads. Recedes into himself and pleas for respite.
Left to wrestle his own fears of king or despot selling wishful vials of lies to those, without the question in their mind to test it.
“They won’t listen. Days go missing in their heads consumed with blissful ways.
They chase the wisdom
Fray the threads of truth to suit the pictures kissed with wishes for filtered existence away from criticism and pray for a view assuring their faith stays”
Before the next reply could pour out The
Depths retort a horrid sound that cuts the air
and ground, denies the sordid pair their discourse,
and sorts them with the rest of who’s around,
with waves of death abound.
The recently brittle mountain
with what decent little strength had been reserved,
turned temples into rubble descending caverns and burning up. The lessons lost and briefly learned, before the the fall,
were all but echoes in the minds of the dancers who returned,
to spurn the non believers who couldn’t use their faith and find lessons to be discerned.
“Heed not the words of heretics.
Fear not the shrinking mountain.
This lack of faith produces bile that strives to pollute our drinking fountain.
Search within yourself to find a mind that lends its self to sway.
Allow these soothing songs
of ours to heal and wash the pain away.”
And they will.
