A Critique Of Judgement

 

 

 

Well before
The parries of doubt
At the end of god,
A little boy
Once asked to fore,
After disappointed
In glares askance by
The various Sisters Mary,
The teleological happenstance
Of the lady,
Who basked in divine favor,
Who ascended to heaven,
As the eternal mother
Of the living dead
Taken in the unleavened bread.

For all the bother
And mystery
Maybe, just maybe
In the songs of  mother
They might let slip—–
The execution,
The use,
The classification
And circular references,
Those Augustinian fences of the delicate sort,
That prove beyond a doubt
All wrongs in error,
To rout  disbelief,
And let drain
The sweet nectar of heresy.

His question at eight
Was innocent of the skate
Over thin Platonic ice,
Nicely, he imagined
The rocket lady going into orbit
Around Pluto.
You know—-

Like gravitational pull.

Well I never!” was the answer.
It’s a mystery,” was the other,
Faith is the way,” was the final say
On Holy Ascension Day.

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