Question.

An internal battle with god and science.

What wings are these
That hasten me
To take my leave?
For in this hushed solemnity
Am I no longer companionless?

Here on this firmament
Light shines only-
It does not resonate from within

He, the martyr,
Trained of tongue
And keen of ear
Troads his way to rocky shores
to bathe-
not in the blood of men,
But in their sins.
Sin so rightly ours
That only one need parish for this birthright.

Laughter.
Audible sounds resounding
In the hearts and souls of men
To weak to lift eyes to an illusion of a sky
Slight of hand in the arms of God.

And we the cancer devour a gift
so benevolently bestowed
beneath ten toes.

Ten fingers
Folded in empty prayer.
Words fraying and molding
Like old cotton
Falling from the mouth
And rolling of the tongue...

A tongue that could just as easily
Lick clean the wounds of the hurt
And offer peace to the dying,
But rather slashes and slanders
The children of God.

Oh God, what have we become?
Science destroying mystery,
Mystery provoking science,
science destroying beauty...

What will be left when the door is finally closed
And we are abandoned
Heads full of knowledge but blind to the world,
Feeding like worms on the rot we can scientifically call
Putrefaction.

Rotting:
Something we do best alone.
We do not have a thief to our left
And one at our right to fade from this life with-
Arms spread wide,
Nailed to a cross
As if waiting to embrace
Our father.
God.
Christ,
What will become of us?

Author's Note

Needs to be edited slightly, but punctuation aside, what do you think?