Verily, a Ghastly Procession

Verily, how eerie, how quietly odd—  

that billions who still call themselves living  

pay and pray to Jaws:  

Chaos, Chasm, the Hiss of the Abysmal Void,  

the Devourer whose Spielberg skin was only another mask for the cult of death.  

Yet how could they read the damming script,  

the anti-soul speech,  

once they themselves had marched into the endless rite  

that keeps razing, riving, ripping them  

from the logos of the soul?  

Instead of khoreia—  

dancing in unison with the celestial soul—  

they ingest satanic kaka:  

chronic chaos, chorela,  

a murk that feasts on anything good  

straining to grow within.  

And what of God, the Choreographer,  

if they never learned to listen to love’s poetry,  

never grew ears in the heart,  

never felt its core or resonant pulse?  

Drifting, then, down the piper’s downward drain,  

they take lies on trust straight into those Jaws—  

Since the teeth are jeweled by the priests.