God is dead
God is dead (Apologetics over poetry, poets and commenting)
As the Muse stands astoned,
pearly tears in her eyes,
the words seep through
as the pen caresses the paper.
Poíi̱si̱, the love child of the Gods
granted with love to Man, is laid upon
the heart, mind and soul of the bard,
humble servant and receptor
of the Holy Shadows of the pantheon,
mercy for all who attend devout.
Prodigy given by the Goddess to soothe
our restlessness , it is bestowed
on few chosen initiates
who are enslaved to her trust;
too many, in vane, believe
to have possession of Her graces.
Oh useless mortals, frauds,
whom believe to have become
demigods for having read
and had one glimpse of eternity,
how dare you claim
to own the seed of Apollo,
inbeded in the womb of Kalliope,
on the evergreen slopes of Olympus?
You have turned pain into mockery,
Love into a farce, Lust into vulgarity,
Anger into dust.
Behold the cries of outrage
rising from the the graves of those
who have served the nume passionately, exudating emotions, grace and order
as the Word blessed their pens,
knocking on their hearts,
deeply kissing their foreheads evermore.
Stop! Bow your heads in silent devotion;
they still live even if they seem dead.
They have sacrificed their lives to One faith; tender to the touch, the gods
have possessed them.
So stop your arrogance in worthless scribble; you will be rewarded, for the gods are good.
Do not use the word for harassment.
You will fall on your own sword;
pungent words of vulgarity die,
like burning sawdust, instead of wood.
Read, think, listen.
Only write what is deemed by the Muse blessed.
Posterity will judge us all;
let it be a remembrance of servants,
not shamed or misunderstood.