Oh give me ignorance,
To spare me teachings
Of spiritual convictions,
And poisonous creed,
Dubiously fabricated
By mortal made man,
In his bent to control
His fellowman’s soul
Thus so to wallow
In holy excesses
Of immoral greed,
The while he infects
The vulnerable minds,
With fictional stories
Of hell fire binds,
Thru shaman like pawns
Feeding the venom
That renders soul blind!
remembering Christopher Hitchens
On seventh day
Man rested,
Yet thoughts
Of future goals
Had need for bold,
Thus he created god,
His fabricated myth
To wield control,
Hence with this prod
Of pettifogger cool,
And all the chaos
He’d so fashioned,
Would forever rule…
Alas a woeful fate
For guileless mortals,
Be tenet of this god
Of virtual existence,
For such dictates
Said living hell,
Save for chosen few
Sharing but the spoils
Of man’s misuse,
As long ago as when
The fairytale did tell,
Of god creating men!
ode to Reality
Poetry on a canapé 