To Judge A Creature For A Stone

I have a story for you, dear one, an epic, not a ballad.

Be glad for this story is true, resonating thoughts within the minds of few; exclude all thoughts that plague anew, for tonight we reach the peak of the pew. Who worships the gods, not me, but you.

Tonight, the world falls before the creature’s blade as the ‘welcome’ mat before it is laid. Who are They to judge the creature that strikes the stone, making a rock, a home, built as a humble abode? There are no astute drums of war tonight. There is only the flute. The sounds of silence spoke the truth, though the tongue they speak with is none but mute. So the blade is swung and the sky is split. The stone is halved and with a flash and squint, but the stone is not broken, merely a slit exists. The creature swings again and again battering the stone until the rubble is left. Then it shall rebuild its home, to turn away those who live in murder and theft. The rock though, that the creature breaks and uses does not belong to it. Each tiny bit as much owned by the creator as pups to a bitch. The sky bleeds red, and the trees burn to ash. The rivers run dry and the air is flammable gas. Lights a match to open the view did the creature, so curious, about everything new. Young and naive to the resounding “Adieu!” the stone, restored, now ready to sue. It’s politics and crime, and someone has to pay the fine. How can that happen, when judgement is always supine? The law is a stick and it sways on a wave. The creature then failed to put the stone to its grave, for it is but a tortured rebel who alone is a slave. The Judge is the Jury and the Bailiff the same. The Father, The Son, The Spirit in name; is the creator who reclaimed the creature from where it now came. The creature claws and fights as the guard stops it with the strength of a herd. The creature forcefully wanting the freedom of a bird is disallowed by the stone that comprises our world. Have you ever heard any rebel cause quite so absurd?

And in its cell, the Creature awaits, with the sound of the flute it will reclaim its fate, leave destruction in its raging wake, and naught but itself, its own life it takes.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011


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