I originally intended for this poem to be the first of three parts which would come under the umbrella title of “Dissident’s Crossing” (with this first part being titled “Infidel’s Ire”). The chance of the second and third parts being completed is unlikely now that my focus is almost entirely on writing my epic fantasy. Anyway, no more preamble. Here’s…
A tankard of ale and pipe of dried leaf,
he sips and inhales as the languid night weeps.
The sky sharp and clear, perfection so near
in bold, cosmic swathes; an oil painting bathed
with a million stars and planets afar,
each lifeless and godless as turds in a jar,
but their wonder no less, and indeed no more,
than the world at his boots – a sanctum turned moot.
Not a beast in this place has a clue to its fate,
unaware of their birth or their end on this Earth.
It’s a blessing, I guess, but not to digress
from the problem at hand in this divine land.
A sigh escapes amid nature’s lament
as stars blur in a haze of contempt,
and frustration wells from a primal place,
a deep lake of doubt, its once-shallow face
now boiling and swelling to a familiar sight
as he spits these words out into the night:
You’re not up there, you fraud! You don’t exist!
But, just to be fair, I’ll grant you this:
for a concept, as sure as well-trodden shit,
you’ve gotten this world in a right-rotten fit.
Hat’s off to you there, sir, I do concede
you’ve spellbound them all with the nonsense you feed.
The crescent of Moon casts a smile askance;
a crafty, secret, side-long glance
to Dissident, or maybe to God’s holy angels –
those devious hearts of all myths and fables.
A private joke, surely, but shared with whom?
No surprise, the whole nightscape did chuckle in tune.
Ah, God, you’re a pockmark on Earth’s sacred halls.
You’re the first and the last one to ruin it all.
There’s beauty down here, and out there, it’s true,
in each tiny cell that divides into two,
but you – you’re the cancer, it can’t be denied,
that turned Heaven to Hell in the blink of an eye.
Copyright © Scott Kaelen
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