by Patience Worth
Men mouth, clanking their creeds
As pence whining doctrine. What of this?
He who is a man hears naught of it.
The God whom they beguile
To sit within their creed, eludes them.
The pallid puppets smirk unceasingly
Before empty altars where they kneel;
Mellow candles weep, and incense blinds.
There is mold upon the cup-
The crucible in which they would commune.
He whom they would exalt is not wound
Within the linen. Nay, while they chant
He flings from Heaven's gate
The sun as a ball, casts the moon
And the universes from his finger tips-
And laughs creation!
Last updated January 14, 2019