My Poetry: Playground of the Gods

Death cult story told as truth
Round campfires, and in tomes
One man’s terrorist

Is another’s freedom fighter
Innocent son of seedless birth
Resurrected to save

Us from our greatest sin
Which sits not between our legs

But in holy layered ritualistic truth

That spirit beats flesh forever
We are but kindred spirit
Except for those we’re told to despise

But, if words stolen by Rome,
For vanity and for profit

Turned his image back to flesh,
Stripped book of cover story?
It's naked words held to the light
No God holding whip to slave.
No pulpit words to make us fear

No virgin birth or second coming
Just another mortal body
Born of Mother Earth's androgynous womb
Another servant searching for a way
To justify this spiteful world
Before pleading for freedom
Before her gavel of her glory?

What if cross was stripped of reverence?
Would corn bread still feed
Those hungry for the message?
Would red wine still sate
Those thirsty to sup his blood?
But what of he who casts doubts,
Or hunts for truth outside their spires
Where gnostic knowledge frees the soul
As turns body back into dust.
What of he who searches, but
Lays axe to sacred tree
From which fruit hangs,
Rotted by a false piety
Made bitter through a twisted faith.
Will in rapturous pyre he burn
If he ignores indoctrinated truths?