By Christopher Rupley and Phen Weston
Mimic distinct responsibility,
and claim that I have none of the above,
that you alone stood against the devils
that blanketed fevered dreams
with echoes of our destructive lust,
Where were you then, when Eden fell?
Why didn’t you salvage your asset,
and replace the libation for yourself
with one more precious than the love for a father,
creating instead a milieu of sanctity among
the fallen thrones you devised?
Where were you then, when angels wept?
Swept between pulpit and promise denied?
Where the hand of God reaches through passing,
that tumbled hymn sang to those whose grace became
contagious before his tears salted the ground,
trampled beneath ends,
imprints held in titles elapsed,
And this canonical snare
that ripped through humanity
like a plague,
cherry-picking it’s victims,
giving crass pompousness
a new name –
a name that purports love,
yet dangles a tantalizing
prize among the eyes of
with an eye for their
Aren’t’ your coffers full enough?