The Ages, Part IV

Christ from heaven’s
holy pinnacle
saw the flow of profane
syllogisms and mysteries
from the laver of
a lower dominion—
mysteries rich with the
slough of hierophants
unwashed hands,
this red river flowed to man
and filled the filthy catchment of
his mind, mixing with desire,
delusion, and mistaken notions
of death to become his guidemap
to the upperooms.
He ascended shakily, and in
near dark, stairs meant for
the sea creatures—men wet and
smooth and endowed with
telepathy, but Cain’s mistake
became the mission-critical
for the whole endeavour.
Seeing the peril of such
libellous and potent canons
in hands designed for prayer and
supplications, Christ sent Satan,
bloated as he was with self-worshipping
schemes, to lay as like a facsimile
of his own convoluted and
counterfeit religion,
a high and hermetically insulated
cult of indoctrinated hedonists,
to protect the many blasphemies
from the great swathes of
the unharvested.
Satan laughed, seeing opportunity
to have the ascended temple of
anti-reason, of idol-worship
and superstition to be instead the
seat of government, and the vassals
beneath, God’s coveted harvest,
to be once rendered barren by the
drought—they surviving all on
dry religion, question-begging atheism
or trance-channeling lunacy—
washed utterly away by the disclosure
of a million reworked secrets—
ones that point not up,
but inwards, to the god of rotted flesh,
the self.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio



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