He offered incense on the muddy banks
of the bedlam river
His God is in all moving things
Its path a twinless stream
He kissed the wind, said
prayers over chaffed lips and assiduous
fingers on velvet ether,
to the flirting of air and matter
Others fight like cowardly crows, on
borrowed fears and paper frontiers
Tussled over spaces of mind, and
trampled over “insipids like him”
Under his cells above his laurels,
that forever movement of souls — he found
But he chose Its silence, over
convoluted wisdoms, over careless schemes
His God was young, the acolyte naif
Hatred held hands, for
respect quietly fostered
within heaven’s devoted rivals
The End was predictable, slightly unbearable
Paradise had no chairs left, but hell was
all ever-dancing flames; a palatial shrine
he brings to the God in every move
This was originally an idea for a short story that I never got to write. It’s a challenge to compress it all into a few verses, but I hope something goes through to you. Thank you for reading.
