Do not call me lazy,
Despite my outward performance,
This dreamy cobalt haze,
Thralldom to a demonic apathy,
One of the seven,
Weighing ones limbs down,
But moreso ones soul,
Rendering all effort as wasteful,
Have you even met Sloth?
That cruel vice of lethargy,
A disinterest in ones own life,
Leaden disinterest in betterment,
A zombie of no necromantic persuasion,
I find myself slave to this sinful trail,
A yellow brick road to ruin,
To live is needless exertion.
He is whirling,
Devout in his movements,
The aches in his legs mean nothing,
Physical exertions to praise the upper,
Let the spiritual ecstasy never cease,
Spin and praise,
Upon the sunburned steps of Istanbul,
His ebony robes appear a turbine,
The whirling continues,
A trance-like tornado of limbs,
Arousing his soul,
Spiral in wajad,
This Dervish and his euphoric twirl,
Is closer to immortality than I could dream,
Each priestly rotation brings further enlightenment,
The whirling shall not stop,
Not until salvation bears its head.
I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,
Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,
Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,
My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,
We are our own gods now.
We bow to icons,
All of us,
They control us without our knowledge,
Symbols and portraits and likenesses,
Permeating influence over our cortices,
They’re shapeshifters you know,
They change to suit our ideals,
Or our vices,
Not necessarily malignant,
But still all-consuming,
To one man it could be a godful symbol,
Words from an invisible man,
Commanding words from the past,
The lady over there sees a dollar sign,
The path to prosperity,
The religion of finances and using,
This boy idolises his favourite star,
Tentatively forming a blueprint he wishes to follow,
An icon dictating his lifes path,
Another man looks up to the statue of his leader,
His eyes well with respect,
Even while his taxes rise,
These things are everywhere,
Inanimate perhaps,
But nevertheless powerful,
Billboards and cenotaphs and celebrities,
Icons hold an influence over us,
That rivals even deities.
I am bound to this place,
This gothic mausoleum,
Of outdated thesis,
Warding off evil with monstrosity,
I was chiselled out of stone,
So I feel nothing,
I appear an abomination,
An amalgamation of goat and drake,
A chimera,
A terrible sculpture,
Defending this farcical place,
As if it held the grail,
An architectural guardian,
A gargoyle in the common parlance,
I look down at the ants below,
My granite heart feels nothing,
Yet I wonder what their lives are like,
Are they as cold as I?
I was once a very real dragon,
If not for this cement,
I would soar from this perch,
And wreathe the earth in flame once again,
But fear not child,
Those warm days are long dead,
For I am bound to this place.
It’s time for a camping trip,
Into the bleak wilderness,
Devoid of divinity,
Just like us,
Us godless cretins,
We reach the dark grove,
We set up our campfire,
Or was it a ritual site?
The goat smirks,
Time for hexes around the fire,
We have a black book of fun,
Emblazoned with the goat,
It’s time to be ourselves,
Around the summoning circle,
Let’s bring some sin to this forest,
The goat giggles,
Amused by our incantations,
With our tent witnesses,
Marshmallows and diabolism,
Calling out to darker corners,
The fire ripples in concert,
The chanting stops,
Deathly silence,
The wind slinks away,
Something growls in reply.
Your god is dead,
Their god is dead,
All of your pantheons have perished,
Olympus is vacant,
I swear to you,
I’ve seen their graves,
Desecrated by roads and homes,
Covered in skyscrapers,
Gasping on industrys fumes,
Ravaged by hordes of heretics,
In their cafes and clubs,
Their boutiques and parks,
The pollution of mortals,
Pray all you like,
Let the words be sand in your throats,
Your prayers won’t be heeded,
Your saviours thrones lie empty,
I’ve seen their graves.
There once was a God who learned to hate,
He grew tired of benevolence,
And perhaps of divinity too,
His creations only brought disappointment,
Beasts of fang and scale grew tiresome,
Achieving nothing but a tedious cycle of predator and prey,
His creations of the waves too,
Fins and scales offer no diversion,
He looks to the skies,
And hates the souls flying overhead,
Cursing at his avian creations,
Each wing-beat an assumed insult to his godhood,
Most of all he loathes those of his image,
Dominating a world he made,
Squabbling over salt and dirt,
Boring, boring and boring,
A bored God is a dangerous God,
A dissatisfied one even more so,
What if he decided to inject some amusement?
A cataclysm there,
A flood here,
Or a plague over there,
Something a hateful God could unleash upon his subjects of ire,
What if this God decided to throw his toys away,
And started anew?
Sing thy songs of joy,
Even as poverty rears its ugly head,
Sing thy canticles of generosity,
Even as the stricken grieve for their dead,
Sing thy hymns of justice,
Even as monsters bathe in red.
Turn a blind eye,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Ignore the cries,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Turn your nose up,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Distrust thy neighbor,
And sing thy songs of lies.
Join your choir,
Bigots and zealots,
Hypocrites and liars,
Faithful and pure sheep,
Sing thy songs of praise,
And follow your good shepherd,
Even if he too may be lost.
I am an apostate.
I’m a heretic,
I’m unprejudiced,
I’m open-minded,
I’m a freethinker,
I’m a heathen,
I’m singular,
I’m an individual.
These things make me dangerous.
These things make me an apostate.
