Of the Vine

This is just a bit of snark aimed at the pious.

They trepidate, deducing angelic serpents in every crevice,

congratulating wallowing brethren at getting up after tumbling

as deep within caverns as they have been poured.

Farther still their minds spiral, seeking devils to populate corners,

prostitutes appearing hungry to bed them, even in well lit hallways,

pausing to ruminate on the unavoidably tattered halos they must bare.

Shaking off the risk of an unexamined morning, settled deep by

afternoon into cleverly crafted mosaics of divinity's private will,

with smug repose that lofts itself above all reason's reproach...

Until drudgery and debauchery is sweet honey refinement.

Quackery's luck, a symphony of Kings, drafted by winged serephim

and delivered with fine leafed sprig to the bow of an unintended ark.

If only we, the proud and blind, could lift these veiling scales

off tortured eyelids and awaken into this cave of comradery's light.

How pleasant then a rapture's feast as we tarry above the fate of mere men.