Puppet Master

Angelic persecution,
Crystal teardrops
Breaking upon sinners’ heads.
Angels’ feathered wings
Crumbling at sinners’ feet,
The demonic dust of pilferage
And prostitution.
Devils sing sacrilegious gospel to filth and faithless fucking.
Desperate souls intertwining twixt terror and tempestuous torment.
A torrent of anger and aggravation.
Jesus unjustifiably jinxed and jaded,
While God ferociously tries to fend off frenzy and fascism.
Where are his warriors,
Those heroes of religious righteousness?
Have they all been felled by flesh?
The persecution and retribution and wretchedness;
The hypocrisy and ruination and condemnation;
Not to mention the distribution of despair.
It is all coming to a head-
A gazebo of giddy hellions-
A hole of hopeless disciples.
What of deliverance?
Shall the angels flee and the devils dance?
What of that?
Who’s war are we fighting anyway?
Perchance we’re pitifully proper puppets,
Playing at some parody for His perverse pleasure.
War is the way of the world,
Religious or otherwise.
Who the hell are we to fight over whether or not we fight?

Copyright © 2002 by Elizabeth Ann Lopez

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