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By Ali Date: 2007 Apr 08 Comment on this Work [[2007.04.08.21.42.6020]] |
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There is no religion in me, no God, Krishna, or Buddha; I am no miracle, nor mercy, no respite from a darkened depth-- I am merely myself. There is no faith in your pretense, no prayer in your resolve, no destiny in your desire: all words are worlds, wielded in a hurling rush, clutching some truth, a tale, a brief destination. There is no solid circumstance, no offered revelation, no begged remorse-- only false idols, handcrafted out of desperation and despair: recognition is a mirror and a mime, but mimicking the emotions will not manifest the sacrifice. There is no religion in me, and I am not worthy or damned. I only offered a glimpse, a swirl of unearthly visitation, a glance of night between Day's many veils. You preach, a heathen at a foreign temple, reigning as a morning star--but your ways fall, a crash of ruins, a testament to some failed seduction that I dare not understand, and I pretend, only, to care. But your hymns descend, cleverly, carefully, casually-- some gnarled olive branch or noose: ambrosia or absinthe? No-- there is no religion in me, no condemnation or supple prayer. You pantomime love, and I hereby abandon this game, I return your relics, your tattered offerings and fragmented explanations: they are nothing, and you are less. |