Religious titration

Through the great fog,
That mist that grows,
As a bunion upon
An unattended toe,
There is a modicum
Of truth.
A dollop of fanaticism,
The opiate.
A cut upon the jugular,
Of reality.
Prostrate before an altar,
That will not alter,
Humanity’s struggle
With belief in the hereafter,
Is the sin of the present,
And a prosecution
Of all of life’s beauty.
In the words of the clerical,
We are damned sinners.
It is the ugly side
Of religion.
Fear is control,
Salvation the fish and bread,
To feed the multitudes.
To follow is to support,
To give is to purchase a place
In dissipated vapors,
Hymns, candles, edifices,
Streets of gold,
Though the streets are paved
With the centuries of blood.
Believe as I do,
Accept my god, or
I will kill you.
Quaint, isn’t it?

© 2011, Donald Harbour

One man’s journey

Life has masked the years
that have tumbled through
my eyes, masked by the
event of being, of loving,
of feeling pain, of laughter,
masked by the stare of thousands
of minutes peering into the future,
remembering the past, waiting
for the next shade of evening,
a view of distant approaching
headlights down this dusty lane
that I have walked as I trod toward
that inevitable point of reason,
knowing when the mask is removed,
the eternal night without a dawn begins.

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour