On The Man of Stars
He, I, died years ago, when
history started and wrote
manuscripts of its unsound
flesh. Hark, behold His glory!
Yet I was gone before the
dusk of the first revered day.
Even when they shot at silence,
even when they drank to used-to,
even when they wrote the bible,
he stayed in Jerusalem.
They who preached the noble He,
when their rubber foam and glue
and latex turned to cushions
that held softly revolvers,
they hailed Mary and began
tearing down amity gripped.
Man’s heart shot down a peg again,
woman’s mantel respite candle,
my corpse reeks of paralyzed life,
you can’t ask for forgiveness.
Clinging onto the shaggy
hands, held together by string
bands, full of worship upon
the chapel which my statue
grieves, they call upon heaven
to win the war they started.
Who will lull the holy golem?
When has servitude remedied?
What is religion but muted
Tongue? New faith for every shot,
I died years ago, he dies
every day.
Copyright © Leah-Rose Irwin | Year Posted 2024
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