Anachron

Here in Munich at St. Paul,
Three sin bells bellow fear's call.
Unstable like Babel, overlooked by God.
Razed in his name, a frightening rod.
And yet, I'm awed.

An aged likeness, an ego vane,
These nicely vice gripping men of fame, a
Slight abomination, but, well,
More a culmination of the
Quiet desperations of their hilted, gilded souls.

Our true altars are lovers' eyes.
Have we faltered at feeling why?
Stealing back our birthright, noble sight of God.
Kneel, ignoble thieves of the frightening rod.
Who owns the sky?

Structure: a tincture ill distilled by time.
Equal parts nostalgia, mass neuralgia,
And blindness.
A coining for anointing,
By a comprimised adjoining.
A warning to the mourning,
That their fire requires adorning.

The perjury of all is complete and fallen,
Here in the house of stolen callings.

Truth is a hologram,
As mercury in our hands.
A parable, arable land,
That cannot be sown.

Living my own time,
Reclaiming this soul as mine,
Embattling Babylon,
In maddening anachron.

I am nothing to St. Paul.
By an unholy roll call.
A rife abomination, evil whores,
A culmination, of the viral infestation
Of their welded, shielded souls.
Fear is not love.

And so the master work of man, has been
The slow demise of this disaster plan.
I repeat myself because it bears repeating:
All real vision lies in nature's reading.

God's vain vision lies before us, fallen.
Here in the house of stolen callings.

Clarity's heresy,
In chiseling charity.
This is the crux we bear,
Our Eden is everywhere.

Living in my own time,
Reclaiming this soul of mine,
Embattling Babylon,
In maddening Anachron.