The Gods Must Be Crazy

A poem about why being a martyr sucks.

My insides are leaking boiling fluid;

Its effervescent composition makes me feel lucid.

The singing mesh, spilling forth from a necrotic laceration;

The gaping orifice stigmatizing all those seeking divination.

Striving to be passive and lame;

My life is but a pawn of God in his game.

This is my test; something I can only lay myself to fault:

An impossible hurdle, too high to vault.

What caused my incessant pain?

Will there be any true gain?

From the tongue of Great Abaddon I have been delivered to martyrdom;

Driven by the lord’s chariot and bound by the bane of freedom.

The softened face of God looks down upon me in pity;

From His mouth come intoxicating promises of his heavenly city:

A veritable paradise forged from my own desire

Yet choked by weeds of lies and forgotten in a dreadful mire.

The watery grave of my idealism; a mere shard of the grand mirror,

Daintily dancing on the tongue of a sea terror.

The fangs snap shut

And I crawl back into a world of smut.

Angels and demons alike are calling my name;

Guiding me towards my beautiful ultimate aim.

To bring glory and fame to my divine kin?

Such a notion spreads a wide grin.

Yes, even in my defunct state,

Lavish lace still lingers on my finger tips, a devil-born bait.

Can you feel it?

The faces of my ancestors, wrinkled with cringes that spell pure abhorrence—

I relish in their unadulterated disdain;

For God has inscribed me in the book of life: a blessing denied for those so contemptibly vain.

They mock me and my dogged zeal;

And I, weak in heart, break my mind’s seal.

For I am crafted from flesh so meek and mild,

My faith a stillborn child.

Debilitated by the dissonance within my head;

From my pores, decades of falsified repentance bled.

I close my eyes for another wild dream;

And yet all I hear is my scream.

I stand justified alongside my brethren, mounted on stakes;

I will not crack, no matter how my body quakes.

I look down upon my form, an unrecognizable heap of flesh and bone;

From within me comes the psalms of a blinded drone.

In the final throes of death, I beheld the kingdom of God;

I have yet to earn my place; rotting underneath the boiling sun, I laud.