THE FRAUD OF ETERNITY
- 15 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Darryl Houston Smith
They promise us fresh, tender skin,
A chance to cleanse the spirit at dawn,
But birth is merely the beginning of sin,
A carcass replaced, a grave withdrawn.
To cry again! To taste the bitter air!
To feel the heavy weight of lust and time!
This earth is but a slaughterhouse for prayer
Where souls are dragged through centuries of slime.
We are the compost of a thousand lives,
Recycled through worms, wombs, and mud;
The Wheel turns ceaselessly with knives,
To drown memories in a fresh wash of blood.
And high above, that blue and stagnant gaze?
That promised land of harps, milk, and light?
A painted theater! A celestial haze
Designed to conceal the teeth of endless Night.
For Heaven is a vapor, thin and cold,
A detached perfection frozen in glass,
A sterile dream that nervous priests have sold,
To make our hours of torture pass.
There is no bliss within that silent sphere,
Only the phantom ache of things unfelt.
But Hell is solid. Hell is warm. It’s here,
Inside the marrow where the passions melt.
Reject the womb! Deny the morning star!
For if we awaken to a child’s cry,
We return to where the monsters are:
To die again... and never truly die.