God is Dead
Look where I'm standing, a monolithic obelisk of ruby quartz oozing crimson,
wooing women are preaching heaven's words through the process of singing,
clinging to their white habits, drawing their oblong shawls closer to their skull,
plastered with the blood of saints that penetrates the sad sunken ship's hull.
The destroyer drops its depth charges, clergies are talking in abating octaves,
adhering to a law devised on one of paradise's off days.
He pulls the trenchcoat closer to his form, preserving the dwindling warmth,
as the wind changes its course in a vain attempt to rip the crows from their perch
as the untamed Raven calls out "Nevermore".
It's referring to a time in the past most people do not oblige to tell children,
where mothers were whirling about in desperation to recover lost kinsmen.
He plays chess with the heavens, tightens his turban and glances aft,
reminiscing of a devestating time uncanny in a time where everyone had,
perfect peace, ruled by a church born from a bottle of ink and a quill.
Not claiming heresy, the thing that brought us into a time of intense hate,
but what's he thinking is along the lines of the events leading to the Crusades.
Everyone's dropped into a Well of Ignorance, possessing a name that implies satisfaction,
dropping to the reserves of humanity's rarely surfacing sense of required action.
The realization is shrouded by a cloud of faith and belief that is unshakable,
something grand and to be treasured as long as a taste of blood is satiable.
He sketches on the obelisk to the fallen:
This is a place for my deceased brethren as well, here's a place for me to vent,
some people don't understand that the Birth of Jesus is an astronomical event.
Virgo gave birth to the El's 'sun', and there's more etched in constellations.
Also, how can you not see that the stories are comparable to things written for recreation?
To explain things, and it's heinous to hold onto the belief everything is true,
but you can't see it's a way to explain things, a myth like those of Cherokees and Hindus.
Follow your Ten Commandments, believe in that omnipresent being in the next dimension,
who provides us with heavenly attention and intervention like adrenaline to lift cars from children.
And it's seldom to think and believe that someone may not have died for us,
never cried for us so we can live another day and continue that cycle of,
life, that precious thing that explains how our flesh returns to our proud Earth,
and gives feed to the flowers and that fertilizes the plowed and mowed dirt.
So try not to recreate a thing like the Crusades,
a relatively unknown date that bloodied a clean slate.
The next day, the Muslim returned to the obelisk next to the church,
and read the graffiti some people had etched around and upon his words.
'Heathen' and 'idiot', they cried; 'burn in hell' and 'you claim Jesus didn't exist, you filthy bastard? Goddamn treacherous lies.'
Amadeus Wolfgang Saladin, the Muslim named after the famous Austrian composer known as Mozart, stared at the obelisk and shook his head. The sunset above him, the salmon sky covered in red and orange streaks created by a broad paintbrush. A patch of hair fell from Amadeus' head, followed by more and more. Dead skin followed, until the Muslim was revealed to truly be a long-haired man with golden hair as resplendent as the sun.
"People need to beat their children more," the Savior said, walking away quietly.
Word.
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