the fascination of the faith is here,
but, how to tear oneself away?
The way began amid the myths.
simplified to suit the kids
supplied with only simple dreams.
And, for a while
the mendacious smile
of a Calvinistic style,
impressed us to be good,
and do what must be done,
to provide us with the billionth
part of sunshine which God decreed
was all we needed to survive.
Alive? We’ve managed that.
All we’ll require to keep factory fires burning,
or; in turning, all the energy we’ll ever need
to feed the coming cries of new born ‘whys’
to perpetuate the fate of all the small
and silent men, who’ve no idea when
their day will dawn.
To spawn for centuries
the children of small comfort,
and, deliver their tall thought
into the bought and tainted hands
of panders to negation, that
the Reformation profits brought.
The child’s caught desires,
sometimes can refute
the profitable pyres.
Purchased by suppression
of their growing pain.
Which darkly dwells
within the cells,
of each quick and able brain.
Again, and yet again,
the story’s told,
to unfold the 'Christian Myth’ to children,
when all they can achieve,
is leave the gift of toil,
lest their aspirations spoil
the red and fertile soil
which favours few with fortunes.
And opportunes the rest, and rarely blest
to fester; angry in a future sold
by spinners of the most,
corrupting story ever told.
© James Rainsford 2012.
Note to readers: Posted as my contribution to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. Your comments are very welcome.