Crescendo of Shame

Everything worth a damn
began as a glimmer in
its creator’s
eye;

conceived during work weeks,
Mondays to Fridays designed to
appease the non-believers.

I betrayed so
many
a Sabbath because
the addict in me laid eyes upon
her seizures of faith,

the wraith of a religion without some
tenet of forgiveness in
its hymns.

Jungle
gym of judgement, its
self-ordained pundits and reverent
morals find
themselves quarreling with
sands of support;

as a relic
like any
God who’d
assort you based on
love for beard or
beauty.

So long as your duty to
live and let
live’s fulfilled,

the only wars left to win
are with
those conditioned to
fear, maim and
swill,
kill, shame and
profit ostracizing you as if
some holy war looms.

So let’s take this metaphor (we’ll
call it a broom)
knock down the jungle
gym and sweep away
the residue.

Let’s take this anecdote (acknowledge
it’s really something
more) and tailor

a fable worth sticking
to.

Between you and I, it’s
the best story we could
probably manage.

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