Bless you, young wandering poet– to know she was, as are most, worthy of apotheosis and yours the honor to bestow it. The command of words you boast, though no ink could oppose hypnosis which struck your lyre’s notes then spoken to none– be mute, thy lips are broken.
Bless you, foolish lover of the wild– to know no greater expression than those of simile and reprise. Burn the heretics away, ye helpless child! And make way for the godly procession that bleeds and laughs before your most pious eyes.
And, pity you most have for her. Thy goddess is nothing less than the mortal frame that lies besides. Could only mutable imperfection give off such godly warmth?
This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...
Do this in memory of Me.
In memory of the spooky parochial school halls In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient In memory of the over-simplicity of rules In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy In memory of crushing inadequacy
Do this, in memory of me, the child.
In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit Whose body developed too early Who had trouble making friends Who didn't have enough discipline
Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that So many tiny rules and expectations to love, serve and obey
hellbent on slaughtering the devils at my door held an exorcism so they can't hurt me anymore mouthful of sin the father has me on my knees because i won’t pray for him i owe him no apologies i’m not your disciple i fear no god i won’t follow blindly the pious lies that i’ve been told
Eyes deep and dark as if linked to the primordial abyss, It was as if " " could see further than the blank faces of truths and lies It was as if " " could clearly see what is and what is not.
Voice commanding attention like the horns of heavens army and as soothing as it's zithers, " " lips its succulent strings. Body as bountiful as the late harvest " " delicacies just as sweet miracles when " " legs part blessing falling from my chin to my feet,ceremony a Thanks giving for this decadent feast.
A self, if I don't help , watering flower blooming how and when ever it sees fit. Passion like the sun, radiant and all illuminating but tempered by a mind like the moon on a still pond, while it seems grounded it's true home is in the sky amongst the stars.
O Piety! O enlightenment true! O humbler of the haughty heart! The head Of prideful man bows low in awe when you Address him to the Giver of the Bread Which is called daily; true Reverence is shed Like light upon the soul, and darkness flees When poor man your humble majesty sees!
O Piety! You teach the timid to Rise and cry “Father!” When rebels arise With clamorous shouts to overthrow, you Teach them to fall, not daring to raise eyes To Heaven, and pay homage with great sighs Of contrition to their Lord and King! It Is by thine aid for prayer man is made fit!
O Piety! Come, devotion inspire, Let fall down our faces sweet holy tears, Fan into a furnace our inner fire! Fill us with that love which casts out all fears, Attune to the voice of the Lord our ears! To us who ask for direction you say - “Kneel, as though you knew to Whom you dare pray!”