Bearing False Witness

Bearing False Witness

Religious practice is like sitting on a cactus

You pretend it’s not there and you’re in a comfortable chair

But reality is pain from the thorn pricks that stab your ass

Is that ketchup or blood that drops onto the dried desert grass?

Closed minds and set ideas that caress

Self-satisfaction that all’s been found and nothing less

Patriarchal hegemony that sees guilt in the virgin

How ironic that orthodox practice is a broken ten commandment version

Evidence is found, perhaps not fundamentally profound

Was that a dream scene had in the middle of the night with sound?

For the light was bright and opened to show sky, an alien world?

To the side and below burning orbs luminescent and colored

Then is demonstrated faith or ritual

For you discover yourself when you’re at the abyss level

What did you declare and to whom call?

Found strength in God without doubt or, are you a weak ritual?