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Abhijit Patil Jan 2017
Whats become of the creed, my brother?
People filling their coffers
with so much ***** coin
And filling their head
with empty irrationalities;
A temple of gold is no buidling
to atone their sins.
Oh why Oh why, cant they see
the cobwebs of dogma gathered
in their temple over the ages.
How do I see all this, my brother?
and they dont.
None of this was to be,
Not in the book that they swear on.
So lets stop waiting now,
No more prophets are coming now.
It is time, lets bring this diseased
temple of theirs down on them.
It is time, my brother,
for the gods to die now.
They need some new ones now
We build a promised land now
From the ruins of the old now.
Devin Ortiz Dec 2016
I tire of this Patriarchy
The footpaths, The Guidelines
The strict Dogma, The misogynistic guise

I tire of these Sins
The evil manipulation, The father of my fathers
The pleasure of power, The hearts swollen with hate

I tire of this Psychological Harem
The predestination, The pain of letting things go
The image staring back at me, The toxic masculinity
He was
either a
Captain or
Tory to
lead river
by Alamo
where want
toiled much
and delay
soiled so
much together
unfortunately his
somber face
many that
Hasici died
and San
Antonio implored
diocese while
Serra's Chapel
also became
an acorn
for fruit
and burial
for Franciscan
outward envy
of mission
for peace.
Serra's Chapel refers to early mission by the same name in  in Orange County in California
jane taylor Jun 2016
fly
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes

shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit

brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times

barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now

an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
naked in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze

i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge

free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation

floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun

you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound

you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul

dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly

©2016janetaylor
my husband and i left the mormon church and lost many friends, family, and community
Luke Mar 2016
listening
was
never part
of the
job
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