Actions And Not Beliefs

Obscure references wash my peasant hands,
Born from the soil I recoil from chains that tie the masses to their ignorance.
Rare rocks cost souls of innocents,
Yet Sundays seem to wash the blood off the child made apparel,
Leaving thoughts sterile,
As barrels of oil burn for guilty souls,
Molding out the path of the future as creatures we have once again become,
Chastising the truth, with rights imposed making me feel wrong all along.
Songs sing bulging with ideals of gluttony,
While lying in dens with dead lions holding this up as truth frozen.
Pulling strings of hearts repeated images of a magician,
A unity unrivaled while under rugs go skeletons of purity,
Murdered shelves of insecurities paint tears,
That only get seen alone in the mirror,
And yes my fear is that I’m not alone here,
Sitting on my porcelain throne,
Digging through momentary monetary images of circus animals,
Rotating through the reflection room,
Feeling emancipated by the 1000 replicated images that sit at their ankles,
After death not a soul brings a candle,
As the others squabble for morsels’ attached to bones of Legions clones,
Tainting the holy saintly few in recent history with dependency,
Now this peasant turns and walks back into the sea,
With a 1000 wounds that will never forgive or take the time to stop and bleed.

©Jaria Cecil Snow/Ca.