Suffer the Believers

a poem

Suffer the Christians,

to come unto me.

There is no God, but,

mortal strains of fear.

 

Of death unknown,

and prayers offered,

but empty, so passively drawn,

by selfish devotion, blind Allah.

 

So, the sins are multiplied,

and the counting begins.

Where sin is laid upon sin,

then indignance upon righteous thrust.

 

Oh missionary, my missionary!

Find freedom in Whitman’s spirit.

Still, you are throttled by Catholic seizures,

and poisoned by Pentacostal frustrations.

The End

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