When Nol was born, no pilgrimage occurred
To see him, and no costly gifts were laid
Beside his bed. No bright and godlike bird
Announced his coming. No one's even made
An icon of this great event, but all
Know ev'ry moment of it, from the worst
Contractions that his mother felt, the bawl
He let loose when the air, so cold at first
Met his bare bottom. Now, as time and age
Have found him, none of us can see or hear
Or leave our beds. We've trembled with his rage
And laughed with him. It only took one smear
Of his blood on our skins. We all are he
And only when he's gone will we be free.
Friday, June 3, 2016
Fantasy Friday: A Poor Choice of Messiah
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This poem's incredible! Well composed, really unnerving, and it goes with the mood these days. I saw an interesting remark under a youtube video: "What is happening is that because of advanced technology and the deep split between man and his spirit and Nature, people are so far removed from what spirituality is, that they can be fooled with what you could call 'astral substitutes.'"
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