Holy Fire

Holy fire, the incense burns.
Temple hounds are gathering
the scent within the wind.
The cult of Christianity
refuses that, the sacrifice
that He once made for them.

When was it that the rise of shame
became the basic precept of them all?
To tame, project a sense of guilt
and ride them in the name of one
who cared. She never asked
a sacrifice of them.

The scent, the sound, the costumes,
and the setting. Another orchestration
of the hierarchical theme. Kiss his ring,
then burn another witch. Drink that wine
at early morning mass, and watch
the world pass away from you again.

Deceive the horde and tell them
everything will be all right; even
as the world falls apart. Steal the
light of everyone you know for
your advance. Then leave them
in the trance of all alone.

Admire the stone of gothic architecture.
Eerie, how the feel of years will always
linger on. And there, a sense, a touch,
a feel - of all that once was real. Simple
and uncomplicated, life was everywhere.
Oh, for those days, when love was in the air.

How is it that they grew beyond the best
that they could be...? Watch them sink
into the mud of modern history. Politically
ambitious, and still socially acclaimed -
they maim the essence of integrity.

Swayed by pleasures never meant
to be continuous. And thus the rush
of ever moving on. No time to search
and find the ethical. The moral rule
remains without a clue to what is right
in realms of soul.

Confess! That yes, we are so very different,
you and I. We never saw the sense to all
their busy complications. Life itself
has simply never been that hard to bear.
Contracts bound with thick appendices.
Power played into the warp of every
living day.

Mother Nature knows the wane of all
their warped adventures. The solidity
of seasons change, depending on her mood.
She never judged the right or good or strong.
Nor did she e'er condemn the small and
gentle to be nothing more than wrong.

West of the Nile, a tiny creature dwells.
Living through the swells of desert heat
that seek to end the reign of all that's
wet and wild and free. The floor begins
to wash away, as rivers overflow the bounds
once set. Less than sand, the mind of man
is growing drier still.  Disconnected
from the heart and runningonly on
a definition of man's will. Seeking more,
yet finding less -
within the mess they've made.

Holy fire, the incense burns.
Scented in the memories
of time that's passed away.
The temple hounds are gathering
the scent within the wind.
Yahweh has grown tired
of the repetitions spent.

Storm clouds gather, brooding
at the task now set to them.
The thunder and the lightning
lay in waiting. The vortex of
the wind is ready for the power
of its spin. Beware - the natural
is always on the rise again.

Holy fires burning bright - and
Mother Nature reaches out again...

? Michaelette ?

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