A Poem

Arms raised high,
bloodied fingers claw heaven's floor.
Foolish gods laugh and dance, as
cobbled feet drag over stones
and men of faith chase the extraordinary,
each other in tow,
and who is left but the thinking
to clean the blood from the earth.

Blessed

Ere you wish to bestow on us
your songs of thankfulness sworn,
of blessed gifts from heavens on high,
silk, and triumphantly worn,

your shepherds who have had the truth
prescribed by them from above, 
whose thinking lay stashed for another day.
You are blessed, they say, to have love.

You are blessed, they say, with your health and your work,
you are blessed, they preach, with your youth,
yet where is the heart of the fickle above
less concerned with substance than couth?

"Eat now," they sing, "from this body of God,"
"Drink now," they sing, "from chalices gold."
Their words are the cloaks we inherit at birth
and we young learned to hide in their fold.

If blessed then how not cursed are we
when fate -- your model, not mine --
so decides, that blessed is the dog at your feet
thought and soul decaying and dying?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
blessed are the angels on high.
Preachings of blessedness fall on deaf ears,
for blessed, as a concept, is lies.