We are the quiet, the hidden
the purposely unnoticed,
the only speak of it to each other
write it, paint it, sing it
... but not to the masses
they are unfocused, organized
religious zealots, diabolic replicas
rendered children of Zion,
angered by the unknown, the
misunderstood reasons for not
being willing to understand
or accept what is inevitable
wish to kill us, do you?
wish to rip our hearts from our
chest, hold them in your hands
as if you have triumphed over our
spirits, brought yourself redemption
by judging not lest ye be judged.
oh yes, i can quote your scripture,
talk about your rapture, how you
crucified your so called Christ
made your God weep; all so you
could keep some kind of pureness.
We will gather, make no mistake,
you with your held out crosses
your thumping black books spewing
scriptures that choke out truth,
but we are patient, compassionate
to our fellowman, mistaken for weak
until our rage breaks.
We are the mystics, the witch's brew,
the keeper of your thoughts, holders of
the knowing. We are Old World tenderly
tossed with the New, a salad of
scrolls garnished with wisdom
and dressed with apparitions
that you call ghosts. We are here
to awaken your spirit should you
choose to allow your ears to hear it.
There is a fire sparking, somewhere in
the mountains. I see them dancing,
eyes wild with energy, hands raised,
feet in rhythm with time, and I smile
at the divinity as they find absolution
in the composition of the wind.
copyright @ vennie 2008