The Bindings of Truth

A Poem by Sarah Crawford

This poem talks about Paradise Lost and portrays a Milton-like experience.

The Bindings Of Truth

Darkness.

Everything just so black.

It reminds me of a never ending night in which you find yourself thinking that you could be dead it’s so black.

But then you open your eyes.

If only things were so easy.

They tell you that your life flashes before your eyes when you die.

It doesn’t.

The only thing I saw was black.

Not for long.

Soon there was consciousness,

but I am laying on the ground,

feeling similar to Milton’s hero as he lays in the pit of darkness after being cast down from heaven.

My body is twisted and pained and feels as though it has been dragged throughout a bed of nails fresh and red hot from new creation in their fire of iron and hatred.

My skin rots,

and I feel the bacteria eat through me as fast as their tiny mouths will allow.

My teeth have long fallen out,

and I am unable to scream because my tongue too has rotted away with the rest of me.

Not even my heart beats.

Nor my lungs.

Though I am still here.

Stuck!

My soul is fixed on my body with rusty nails that look as if they belong to an ancient,

unused, wooden railroad. I do not bleed. Nor do I feel their pain any longer as rust �"not blood, for it is reserved for only those with unmaddened souls-

seeps out my hands and feet.

What is this that I hear now?

“I am what Milton spoke of. Crucify me!” a low echo,

resonating power,

rumbles and vibrates through my very being.

It calls to me in a way which I have never known before.

“Come to me,” it beckons. “Together my brothers and sisters we shall rid the world of this terrible injustice! Why have you been cast down? It matters not to I! Come to me my children so that we shall make equal the pain that we have felt all this time!”

This is the first voice I have heard in a long time.

I struggle against my iron bindings as the voice seems to leave.

Without me.

I lay here still!

My rotted flesh it seems shall always rage against the dense air around me that is either too cold or too hot.

I cannot tell but it is indeed such an insane feeling.

Was this what he felt?

As he lay in the darkness below heaven with only a lust for revenge in his heart?

As his wings were torn from his body and he became not angel or human or demon,

but something madder than anything ever seen?

And when I was alive what did I do?

Laughed at the possibility of hell.

Without a fear of hell I was born in to a darkness of hate so great that I did things without thought of consequence.

What did I do to end up buried here?

I already know.

Of my first disobedience,

I chose to defy my commanding officer.

He was very much a father to me.

I started gathering others to make a stand- a protest if you will- that we did not want to follow through with his orders.

He had too much power,

and was concealing the truth from everyone’s eyes.

Was that why I was cast down?

Or is this what everyone feels after death?

What everyone faces?

No.

There is a heaven.

A place for those who blissfully enjoy their ignorance and are rewarded with more ignorance.

Heaven.

What a word.

I know that those who chose not to question what is are not here around me.

They have been granted access to something which I shall never see.

And I hate them for it.

I lay here now, bleeding rust,

and screaming in the agony that only true hatred is akin to.

When I read Milton- when I was still alive, and in an English literature class- I had always thought that the prospect of having the Devil’s view of things was so to achieve sympathy for his plights.

I was wrong.

Milton chose not to achieve sympathy for the Devil,

but rather a common sentiment by way of pain. God knows not pain. Angels know not pain.

But he does.

He understands my agony. So terrifyingly excruciating is what I am.

I wonder now why I did not see this great irony before.

Now only in death do I hold steady the truth, and am unable to proclaim it to anything other than the six walls around me as I squirm feebly trying ever to unleash my bound limbs from this rotting flesh of which I once conducted myself from.

What am I left to do now?

Do I writhe here in hatred for the rest of forever?

No!

I will shriek the injustice of it as murder is clear in my heart.

What is left of it… I plot my revenge, I do.

I lay in wait for the time when my strength shall be at its peak and then I shall tear myself away from this chamber if I am able.

I shall pull myself with rust coloured hands to the surface and stand for the first time in years.

From there on I shall pledge to find him.

My saviour.

The one I can only truly pray to for deliverance,

because I know that he will surely be the one to bring it to all of us who have been led astray by the one who calls himself our Creator.

If I could I would spit upon the name that people pray to.

He cannot save us,

and he wouldn’t even if he could!

Has he before now?

No!

Has he saved us from our loved ones dying? Does he still their sobs or ease their pain?

No!

he brings it,

claiming that it is fair punishment for Eve’s single mistake!

What did she do but try and seek the truth for all of us?

And he cast her down without a second thought just like he did so to our saviour.

Lucifer wanted free will,

and he was cast down for that?

Of all the injustices upon the worlds,

that has to be deemed the most unjust!

A pattern,

it seems,

that the one named God has.

He is fearful of all those who might try and oppose him and so to stop it from happening he casts down those who he deems worthy of such cruelty and leaves them alone in the darkness.

Hopeless, pained, and weak.

As I am now.

He didn’t save me.

He didn’t guide me.

All he did was help me to my death.

‘God’ is not one who loves.

‘God’ is one who hates.

I feel ashamed for my mistake of worshiping the wrong God all this time.

I just hope that when I become free he will allow me to make it up to him.

I will do anything that he asks of me,

for I love him.

My God.

“Come to me,” I hear it again!

An old drawl.

So old that the pyramids and oldest mountains are its junior.

I can hear the power in its voice as well.

And I can feel my strength peaking, as if my soul knows the one who is calling to me.

My soul pulls the same way a heart beats.

Steady and strong and constant; my soul is released from my metal bindings almost suddenly,

though I cannot say for sure because the concept of time has long since evaded me.

I am pulled up.

My rotted corpse no longer holds me captive in its grasp.

I am free.

Author's Note

This is my first ever poem so please don't be too harsh! :D

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Reviews

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harsh no it was good but one thing i can say is god doesnt hate and he does save you just have to help him. and he doesnt want anything from you except the fact of he wants you to love him.. sorry i a christian and just had to add that..