The Tide, Part VIII

Ashore and under shadows of swarming angel’s ecstatic
music-making we hierophants fled like children from our
noonday naps into an aether of imagined architectural
wonders—we broke bonds, tore temples to the alien god
down, deconstructed stones some thirty feet high erected
on hills where none should worship—our god was the god
of the valley, rich in dream-slick darkening umbras, stoneless—
ours was the mountain man-god Christ eternal, and in his
mighty name we slew what god-demons, dogs, dagons,
dragons, imps and mute venomous coiled snake things we
could in such godly, blood-crazed and blindingly furious
fervour as we were incensed by, and we as though
truly possessed, drinking cups of gruesome glue-like
plasmic ghoul blood to spite our dying enemies, had
no breath to scream, though scream we would have for
all our insane rage—we expelled an eternity of hate for
all Jehovah’s enemies, tearing our own hair out at
our yet supernatural swiftness, our immeasurable
yet imperfect agility with sword, spear, reaper’s
sharpened sickle which broad-swinging we brought
down upon these sickly, soul-destroying creatures
like astral scorpions, like bloated elephant’s corpses,
like tangled tailor’s threads though floating, and in
an indescribable climax of age-long, sad and
spiritual thirst being quenched we lay, each
of us entering into the other and returning as
one figure, one love, one timeless song of
praise to Christ, Jesus of Nazareth, ruler,
unquestionable priest and master and king.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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