have lain on their altar of eternal sacrifice.
And learned that gods don't give a damn.
No matter what they offer in their names.
They allow the agony to continue.
Unblessed, and yet they live to see
the holy light of dawn arise again.
While I, locked in a prison of their mania,
face darkness, all alone and unrelieved.
They torture while they whisper such
endearing words aloud. Father, son,
and holy ghost, be proud of my endeavors.
Forgetting that such pride must be a sin.
It has been written by a hand of man,
so surely it is so. So little do they know
of what it means. Grasping for an
instrument that gleams in torch light
deep beneath the earth. Hiding in
the holy caves that used to hold
life's worth above their claim of infamy.
I have lain on their altar of sacrifice.
I have learned that they don't give a damn.
Neither gods nor men whose faith
is laced with blame of me.
Condemned, my body washes out
to endless seas of peace that move me
in eternal waves of sanctity...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .