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’
minds 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, hour upon hour.

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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