Blasphemy
Almost a year ago I listened to the meek
Who believed they'd inherit the earth.
And for three hundred forty days and a week,
I believed there would be rebirth.
None are so worthy as to sit at His side,
At least none that I've ever found.
Of course, I'm not sure He exists as I hide
My simple brain in a hole in the ground.
Blasphemy, they call it, simple and true,
As I watch the hypocrites enter to pray,
The crimes they commit I've been witness to
As, "We are His people, we're saved," they say.
My mind ponders the deeds of those
Who think what they do will grant immunity.
Deeds, like the pricky thorns on a rose,
That spill blood around the community.
Bile rises up from my stomach to throat
As I attempt to scream my discord.
In all actuality, the Book, man wrote,
Rules covering all he does hoard.
I pray for my soul, I pray for my heart,
And I pray for those, a prayer, in need,
Wondering how a simple Man so apart
From His people can watch them bleed.
� Kathee Tschudy, May 27, 1998
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