Around the distant edges of my dim awareness
I feel the incessant tug and tear
Of shadows dark and stark,
Menacing the light of nightfall,
Tormenting the dawn of a warm becoming;
Misanthropic cravings we dare to call Religion
We dare to call Belief
We dare to spew on a path of Light.
There is a silent cacophony that endures,
That endures to prolong this nightmare.
Who were those who burnt our women?
Who were those who called them witches?
Who were those in the unblessed hallows
Of their mis-becoming who burnt the books of Ghazali?
Do we sight the moon, or do we slight it?
Do we take refuge in the comfort of its shadow?
Or do we strike a path of light from the sun’s reflection?
Such frenetic lunacy!
Do we laugh and scorn to death such pious pretensions?
Do we become one with this cycle of death?
Or do we fight for life, and light, and a new becoming?
It is the rage of pious pomposity that seeks to burn the Light;
Those who seek to erect themselves upon pyres of flaming ferocity…
Seething, skeletal columns scattered upon plains of desolate waste
From which to shout and rave and give voice to the dead-spawn of their god-selves.
Dense with hate; dense with revenge; dense with the demands of spiritual dementia.
Is it Heinrich Kramer’s Luciferian release we seek?
Is it Joseph Sprenger’s collaboration we crave?
Is it the Malleus Maleficarum in which we wish to soak
And stain our souls?
To be one with a sequence of history inscribed
In misogyny, murder and madness?
That Hexenhammer, that Hammer of Witches,
That Heaven’s outrage alone could quell?
Or do we care to yearn for the Morning Star of Rumi’s Mathnawi?
Do we dare? Do we dare to tread that path of love and lived felicity?
But God is Great we say; God is Great we claim;
God is all Merciful; God is all Compassionate;
God is Forgiving; God is Love.
Faceless and forsaken
We beggar ourselves in the name of His Face.
“Set a beggar on horseback” proclaims the proverb,
“and he’ll ride straight to the devil.”
But I cannot speak for another; I cannot speak for the other;
Indeed I cannot speak for myself.
I speak only for a dream – a disembodied image
That tears and tugs at the distant edges
Of my dim awareness.