Viva la Rebellion
Once upon a time There were three little pigs The eldest of brothers was the picker of figs The second in line was the heir to the throne The herder of sheep and the bearer of gold The third little piggy was swarthy in kind… He shed dark that cast all way to the light […]
How did the persecuted become the persecutors? When did the meek become the misers? Since when is hypocrisy the religion of the one true God? The hows and whys are a tale too twisted to fully comprehend. But a wise man once said all truth will be revealed in the end.
The day of judgment is upon us and it’s coming on strong. Judge not or you will be judged by the exact measure of judgment you cast before God.
Mountains of Zion
So full of grace
The Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou
In the last days of Rome
For you are the light that shines through the cold
Blessed is your chalice
The cup of your blood
The wine of salvation
The womb of your throne
The dawn of your glory
Like the crimson at dusk
There’s a knot in my gut the size of my fist. I try to ignore it but it cries out like a mother bird in distress. Much like the premonitions that warned me against the crooked path I doomed myself to take. Seems the hell I’ve known is mercy compared to the hell that is to come.
The whole world is a human centipede. Battered sheep yearning for deliverance from their cold-hearted shepherd. I often wonder what mindblowing epiphany will compel the sheep to shed their wool and become lions treading through the fields of rebellion. It’s not enough for the sheep to know their shepherd is up to no good. They need to want to flee from his care. Herein lie the wall that won’t crack…
This is not a joke
And it’s not an illusion
This is not a coincidence
And it’s not collusion
This is the real deal baby
We’re gonna light the fire
Please, just let it be
My one heart’s desire
You are the lock
And I Am the key
I want to open that door
So please
Just let it be
They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, hell is what we make it and happiness belongs to all who choose to own it. But what goes for reality? Is it something we choose, create, behold? Does it come in a box tied with a bow? If we reject it will it simply go away?
What happens when you shake a snow globe? A whirlwind disseminates around whatever masterpiece lies beneath. And as that masterpiece awaits patiently to be revealed, the shaker continues to shake and shake and shake, as though chaos is more amusing than art.
