They took the rebel,
with dirt on his feet
and fire in his voice,
and dressed him in silk,
floating
like some sainted mannequin
in Saint-Tropez.

He flipped tables —
now they kneel at golden ones.
He fed the poor —
now they feed on gold-plated prayers.
He walked with ****** and thieves —
now they polish marble for the pious.

He healed on the Sabbath
just to make a point.
Told the rich,
“Give it all away.”
He spat truth like lightning
and stood firm in storms.

But they couldn’t control that man.
So they made him God.
Not to lift him —
but to bury him in worship.
Because if he’s God,
you don’t have to follow —
just bow.

They crowned him
to silence him.
Sanitized the sweat,
bleached the blood,
branded the rebel
as royalty.

But I remember the man —
not the myth.
I see the dust,
the rage,
the truth that burned in his chest.

And I say:
bring back the fire.
Let him walk barefoot
into temples again.

Oceans of thought provoking reads
sends his mind sailing as he drifts off and dreams.
Words come to life, creating abstract scenes, activating DNA.
Dimensions stretch, never again be(lie)ving in the same things.
Rose colored glasses cracked, hit by the truth, leaving such a painful sting.
When it all subsides, night vision eyes will be what will assist him in his dreams.
It's the desire to seek out these mysteries that keeps him intrigued by intricate things.

Allegories of euphoria drip from pen, triggering deja vu.
Spiraling down holes where white rabbits go with a clock around my neck; don't wanna be to late to open up and look through a different point of view.
Spitting out bones as I chew; infinite elasticity makes room for truth when the fear of searching has faded. Becoming aware of the bluescreen and the avatar of which I exist in, I'm breaking through the cages.
There's so many checkered floors and doors that lead to more doors. Huge ones you can walk on through and small ones only built for the willing to crawl.
What's a life lived without seeking for truth and knowledge?
What's life like beyond Truman's wall.

And still you're more concerned  with who's in front of the curtain than who's behind it.
The puppets are being controlled by the puppeteers.
The strings are there, even though they're thin and clear; if you're searching for truth you'll find it.

When you're ready to receive it you won't ever have to believe.
Once you're hit with the vibrations, you'll come to know it instantly.
Wavelengths hitting more and more as you head for the top floor; out of your windows it gets clearer, lots more to see, lots more to explore. Mind be the key desiring to seek what's behind these locked doors.