A Heretics Letter

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  • Philosophy

    A Heretics Letter

    What do you see here?
    Some lines, squiggles... dots?
    If the unknown is what you fear,
    Then what you see here is God.
    These letters are just tools
    For use in excavating minds
    Which, when employed by fools
    Allow the Devil to roam free!
    For where does the soul reside
    If not within the mind?
    And where does evil hide
    From the light of self-examination?
    The soul does not exist
    'Til we become self-aware.
    Myself and I weren't missed by me
    Until I knew I had a Name.
    Imagine the fight 'tween evil and good...
    What visages appear?
    An innocent man nailed to some wood?
    A fiery beast licking its lips?
    Lines and squiggles and dots
    Scratched out ages ago
    Still define how we see God
    Our vision of eternity
    Self-awareness couldn't exist
    Without the words to define it.
    These images could not persist
    If they weren't described in verse.
    So, I'll hold onto my letters
    Though, I'm told I'll go to Hell
    By those who think their god is better
    Than the stories I can tell,
    Because, despite what they believe
    Or what they might have heard,
    Our futures are created
    By today's written word!

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    wheelsal commented on A Heretics Letter

    06-01-2009

    I am intrigued by this but a little tightening up would make it stronger5. You are definitely onto something good.

    castlemist commented on A Heretics Letter

    06-01-2009

    I like what you're trying to say here, but I think the imagery could flow a little smoother...overall, it's a good piece.

    JadeRain

    06/01/2009

    Thanks, that's actually what I was going for... I messed with the rhyme scheme for most of it so it would feel a bit disjointed. It's meant to represent man's attempt to create a mythology. The last eight lines use a standard rhyme scheme that flows more naturally. That part represents the writing of those with a wider view - those who understand the process and motivation of those who came before us.

    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

    Unknown Source

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