The Tide, Part IX

Strewing our etheric forms across God’s
material plane, we wept again, not
knowing until then what the angels called
“outside”, but still we were strong, knowing
our purpose and our victory, and suffering
wrong for right’s sake we accepted our
second ordeal, with sinner’s hearts though
transformed in essence and status we
entered a second darkness that exposed
itself through electromagnetic means—
through varieties of molecular bonds, through
photons and other energies, and we, though
diffuse began to gather in darkening pools
like images, like etchings one finds on rocks,
just the same as the stick figures imagined
by the aborigines, we became them, pressing
against a boundary we were being projected
onto: this was the amnion created to protect
the first man, and we saw that one would need
be born to a woman, in a human womb to pass
through—and this the greys sought insatiably
though despite the unfathomable suffering
caused and over decades could not, were no
closer than when they first entered on the world,
capable only of straining, appearing, departing,
always departing and inspecting through eyes
not their own the blinding daytime rituals of
a fallen race like they: how busy they made
themselves to be in the absence of worship,
how deep the deep depravity of their unholy
inversions and misappropriations, their
misuses of the material gifts devoted to them.
Yes, we were quivering, our initial experience
of the real-time world was God’s prodigals and
failed holy servants invading in the millions earth’s
skies, invisible, swarming like mosquitos and
with an insect’s equivalent of lust not simply
leading man astray but entering into sleepers’
mind’s and bodies—inhaling aether and incense
of suffering, what once was the aroma of
praise to God—and supremely intelligent,
unerring, ritualistic, dogmatic, mathematical and
merciless they made our God-fearing eyes
capsize in dismay and also sympathy for those
poor, demented souls whose lot was on their
operating tables, year upon year, night upon night.

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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