Sympathy for the Burning

Sympathy for the burning…
Poor god in a burnable book.
A sad fate of god, restrained to holly places.
That strange god made distant and faceless.
I’m caught contemplating the frustrating laws of proper prayer, good enlightened behavior, and cultured intellectual ‘izms’.
In quiet indoctrination to revere a compilation of Christ’s greatest, and God’s favorites, printed on environmentally friendly recycled paper.
Hats off, by the way, to a God that cares…
In puzzled musings of megalomaniac struggles between,
Creeping devils and great glorious gods of men,
Torn over righteous vengeance and turning the other’s cheek…
That good god of men, the preacher tells me, moves in mysterious ways.
I think the same, but movements aren’t the only thing that are strange.
Movements so vague…
Maker, maker contained on paper!
You faded maker of once upon great,
How I wonder in incredulous amazement;
If all these papers burnt… would you recreate them?
How nothing more insulting to religion than paper…
No easier a means of controlling belief than a compilation of paper,
About the once upon a god by long gone men of great.
But you, that I know is there that can not be written controlled or contained…
The spirit that defies the void and innate
The sublime thing, a book could not capture
Not bound to holly places or heard through marble saints
Neither insulted through gender debates, nor partial to cast or race
One that shamans and preachers can but guess at
Too repeatedly defiant to ritual sermons, or frustrating prescribed prayers
The lost thing written in me
Neglected relic of which I am
Strange echoes of sublime that I feel…
Not damned to heavenly prisons so honored by fabulous archangels of superstitions.
Thus in aspiration, sparked by passing contemplation,
That undertone of struggle to be neither master, slave, follower nor guru or a fellowship’s authority…
For as I am what I believe myself to be,
And as what I believe is what I choose to hear or see,
And I become what I choose to let in me,
Thus constantly made and unmade by myself,
Then… as I am, truly, do I deserve to be,
My own divinity.