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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
What is religion? A mask? A way of life? A sham? You tell me.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

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Submitted: April 01, 2008




The Last Judgement:


"Next I saw a large white throne and the One who sat on it. The earth and the sky fled from his presence until they could no longer be seen. I saw the dead, the great and the lowly, standing before the throne. Lastly, among the scrolls, the book of the living was opened. The dead were judged according to their conduct as recorded on the scrolls. The sea gave up its dead; then death and the nether world gave up their dead. Each person was judged according to his conduct. Then death and the nether world were hurled into the pool of fire, which is the second death; anyone whose name was not found inscribed in the book of the living was hurled into this pool of fire."

I kneel my soul at a dirty toilet
to vomit this poisonous waste,
like most do when that dusty book of debt
reaches its final page and God is coming to collect.

He also plays the role of Mary on this stage;
a Virgin in her most chaste omnipresence,
willing to erase that date of your death sentence
and curve your appetite for sin
when you trade in your life as an even exchange
to wait for her most convincing act of shadow play to begin.

Only, stage hands' dim lights create brighter faces
of moonlit monsters like lepers who hide in the darkest of caves
when we replace skin with our most evil intentions.
I learn to celebrate my own skepticism
with this apparent night vision where even looks
turn into skinned incisions for every wrong decision that you choose.

Life is designed to lose
and we are all proof of that fact;
dating back to original sin.
We should have begun digging graves
for every newborn baby and avoided this entire generation.

Knowing we'd never play along,
we jump in between those single set footprints
of his suggested handwritten blueprints
of subtle hints to be one day hand picked for his big picnic in the sky.

We all rose on the same day he died.
We all wear his same face, only to squint at the rays of his sunrise.
We all wear his same face as our disguise.


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