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