Reflections Upon Resurrections

A philosophical poem which explores that realm of Religion-Promised life after death known famously as The Resurrection. Please Note: No offense is intended towards anyone of any Faith or Religion.

Reflections Upon Resurrections

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Copyright © 2016 Marvin Thomas Cox

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

All Rights Reserved

It seems pointless is our existence,

in so certain finality of our death,

we as blades of grass fading away,

so desperately clinging to breath ...

Is there at all rhyme to this reason

a glimmer of reason to this rhyme,

with seasons cycling upon seasons,

we battle against the wiles of time,

spending the entirety of short lives

seeking a sense of meaningfulness,

a purpose for life's very existence,

older yet seeking a youth's regress,

a fountain of youth's regeneration

to soothe our daily growing fears,

as the wrinkles pile upon wrinkles,

day by day death draws ever near?

Our aging minds cease wondering

all of the whys of why we are here

to desperately focus upon survival

for the fact we are to die is so clear.

____________

Of creation's myriads of creatures,

only man reasons to wonder at why,

in seeking for answers to questions,

as to why we each are born to die.

Our queries are met with silence,

No voice speaks to us from above,

so religion sought those answers,

concluding an angry God of love

hast put mankind upon this earth

to learn trust by way of obedience,

paying a deadly price for failures,

dying shall teach us all obeisance.

Having thus failed, to one day die,

there is a loser's consolation prize,

taken from this life's problems rife,

to live in Heaven with the All Wise:

Heaven, a place so very far away,

where it is, exactly, no one can say,

but it exists 'cause they say it does.

Who's to call religion's say a nay?

____________

Who will stand up for what is true,

who would reveal fairy tale as lie,

who dares speak against religions

that have deceived both you and I,

with nefarious fabrications galore,

albeit perhaps in innocence onset,

turned handily Power's advantage

wielded centuries with none regret,

all the whiles, in gathering clouds,

we see the ever approaching night,

day by day, the clock, it ticks away,

O' if death would but give us respite?

_____________

'Tis time for us to look to the ants

in seeking answers we must face,

for the ant exists solely for colony,

living for the very survival of race,

thinking not of itself, but of others,

no thoughts of any Heaven or Hell,

only seeks for the end of each day,

food safely stored in a shelter well.

An ant never quits no matter what,

whether it be wind, rain, or shine,

to be squashed by the foot of man

will not deter from morsels to find,

for only one notion comes to mind

if one is so fated to be born an ant:

To protect your colony at all costs,

for an ant has never heard of “Can't,”

no thought of what eternity brings,

in looking forward to next Spring,

for an ant's only concept of Heaven,

is found in ants mating with wings.

Do ants presume to knowing it all,

men lying in bed sleepless for fear?

An ant actually knows so very little,

but would see fear as mighty queer.

For what is to fear in living to die,

to accept what's given us as a gift,

rather than many questions of why,

instead of going to the grave miff?

Truth is, ants are smarter than men,

for an ant will never believe a lie,

while men accept fairy tale fables

from a religion's answers of why.

____________

There most certainly is a Creator,

a fact I do, hereby, solemnly attest,

yet, while professing His existence,

religion takes liberty with the rest,

twisting the truth ever so craftily,

in weaving a well oiled web of lies,

brainwashing the Sheeple-Peoples¹,

in pulling religious wool over eyes,

for there is no Heaven, nor any Hell,

except in mythology of pagan lore,

taught by religion as slavery tools,

programming minds shackled sore.

____________

As for fairy tales of a resurrection,

such event takes place each Spring,

as blades of grass arise from soil,

Winter dethroned as season's king,

but we shall never see the blades

of Summers past, ever, ever again,

while appearing as grass we knew,

last year's blades death hath slain,

just as every man to open a womb,

begins life in crying a first breath,

shall meet his end in life's Winter,

to then enter a cold tomb in death,

to reenter the oblivion of oblivion,

from whence each of us has come,

losing consciousness of awareness,

nonexistence doth render us numb.

For the Earth is so wondrously full,

displaying atoms smartly arrayed,

some are thus gathered unto death,

others blossom into life displayed,

a virtual perpetual motion machine

endlessly recycling light into night,

living things into a realm of death,

transforming ones fate into plight,

with men destined to become dust,

dust to become creatures of blood,

the recycling recipe of life existing

'fore dust and water ever were mud.

____________

Spend every moment here and now,

with all of those whom you do love,

casting aside lies of a resurrection,

as any fool would a burning glove,

for Eternal Life and a Heaven's Hell,

are found here upon earth at times,

run for your life to live at long last,

from all religion's lies that rhyme:

Blind Faith's fairytale miracle fables,

leading hearts in wrong directions,

tickling your ears with a salve of lies,

and reflections upon resurrections,

that will never any day see you rise,

nor open your eyes in living again,

no Heaven to cheer or a Hell to fear,

for this life is all there is �" my friend ...

(Written February 8^th, 2015)

Author's Note

1 Sheeple-Peoples—A word and term I find myself favoring in my attempt to communicate the all too factual reality that people tend to allow themselves—even seem to want—to be led, watered, and fed, much like sheep, trusting others with decisions and truths regarding their lives, their futures, their welfare, and their safety, rather then shouldering up such responsibilities themselves as individuals, in finding and enjoying the comfort of numbers. The word sheeple was first coined by actress and Wall Street Journal writer, Barbara Anderson, in 1984.