Tag: epic

Would You Be Free?

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(Prologue)

Would you be free?
Do you understand what you first must lose?
Freedom is not the successor,
or itself the destination.
It is the voice crying in the wilderness.
It is the revolutionary’s indiscriminate fire.
It is the transition,
perhaps not from worse to better,
but to that liminal precipice,
between sacred falsehood
and the sublime emptiness.
Do you understand what you will lose?
Can you be reconciled to its absence,
and create something new?
True, some think only to relish in the ruins,
but many wander in circles
through the ashes,
unable to create for themselves.
They hope to recover what they lost,
for they did not understand the cost.

(Would You Be Free)

What did I know of purpose?
I had not been one of the aimless,
or on the road to Damascus,
when there accosted, I found the meaning.
What did I know of purpose?
I had been born into it.

What did I know of comfort?
I had not been weak with despair
when lo, there the outstretched hand took mine!
What could I know of comfort
if comfort was never needed?

What did I know of fulfillment?
I was not trammeled with emptiness
and in a cycle of addiction
when I first drank the Living Water.
What did I know of fulfillment
when eternity was my inheritance?

What then could I know of loss
or what I had to lose?
How could I take for granted
what I didn’t even know was there.
My belief was not the product of my own contemplation,
or existential anxiety.
It had been instructed alongside my first words.
My faith was an abstraction,
grounded in the faith of those that came before.

Thus, as youth gave way to late adolescence,
acceptance was subverted by reason,
though not reason alone.
For faith had collided with love,
that first and foolish love,
which looks on tempests and is not shaken.
If our love was a sin,
what was left but heresy?
Ignorant of what was not outside,
I saw only the bolted doors of hypocrisy.
Could ignorance gamble a different solution?
I traded my birthright for a match.

Freedom’s light
spewed from the conflagrated steeple,
illuminating the precipice.
Then through the shattered stained glass
I saw purpose burn alongside hypocrisy,
comfort still nailed to the cross,
and fulfillment self-exile.
As the embers fell to ashes,
I understood the cost of disillusionment,
but not that this was a transition,
a point from which to start again.

Oh, those wretched years,
following our footprints in circles through the ash!
What was left but martyrdom for each other?
We asked too much of that fragile love.
We said “Be now my comfort! My purpose! My eternity.
How the weight of emptiness bears down in this uncertainty.”
But that love would only break, it could not bend.
We traded all for nothing in the end.

Lonely Things

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“I know the spirits
of the verdant forest,
of the quiet meadow
and the Alpine lake.”
I said.
“But what dwells here
in this desolation,
just east of the Sierras,
in this vast expanse
of sand and salt?”

Her gilded tresses
swept across her shoulder
in wild array
as she turned to gaze
on the monochromatic landscape,
washed out in the glare
of a merciless sun.
Her eyes fell from the
barren, jagged peaks,
to the sand and salt below.
We had climbed those mountains
before,
but God, we had never seen the other side!

“Lonely things.” She answered.
“Lonely things live out here.”

The Silent Temple

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Eternity was eclipsed by doubt
and reason shone bright
in the darkened sky.
I saw for the first time
his dogmatic bones jut
from beneath a withering numinosity.
It was in that precipitous moment
of irreversible disillusionment
that I killed God.
A sourceless and awful cry
split the doctrinal foundation,
shook the cyclopean temple
of my adolescent subconsciousness.
I fell to my knees,
covered my ears
and closed my eyes.
When I dared to look again,
where his body had just been,
dropped an immeasurable chasm.
His corpse now suspended above it,
all flesh and bone disintegrated
like papyrus and parchment,
until only his heart hung in the air.
As if beckoning me, it hesitated,
then burst into flame,
and fell into the abyss below.
Away from the edge,
back into the temple I fled,
unaware of my atavism.
There, in reason’s cold and waning light,
shining through the shifted stones,
it was not the Devil that took God’s place.
What I heard ever after
was not the Devil’s laughter,
but ineffable silence.

The Valiant Never Taste of Death But Once

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Staggering on an atrophied reason
through a miasma of resignation,
I find and light the torch of conviction.

And run.

Emptiness revels behind every door,
gorging herself on the countless corpses
of every instance of my cowardice.
‘Neath each door, a dim glow promises more
when my conviction’s guiding light falters.
I hear her laugh, an echoing whisper,
“How many times have you been here before?”

Exhausted I sought rest in compromise.
I knew it could only metastasize,
but I dissociated my demise.

And now

I fear this is no longer a labyrinth,
for casuistry had become cyclic.
Ignorance is no longer complicit
in the fraudulence of expedience.
Yet this tragic familiarity
was the thread leading back to honesty:
the travailing threshold to congruence.

She whispers sweetly now, drawing nearer
as my only escape becomes clearer:
I rush to the door that frames a mirror

and push.