A Soul Incomplete
Suddenly, with sleep in tow, it no longer matters
where couched emotions lie.
Let this be an end to it,
to ungainly sights and halo shapes
fitted to the moon.
My heart awaits with all kin gone, learning
there is no wetness to the dayspring of life,
or in the Jordan some fortunate baptism.
This, then, is the God, the God (that is) God alone.
Saying as much, a very lonely God;
still shedding his robe and back-staining his shirt
in a struggling climb and vicarious march
to reach his own high places.
And I pride myself in being very, very far away …
since not a holy image do I carry,
nor even the Shroud of Turin,
just a stained image painted
in a lost veil of infected blood.
Declaim now the perpetual language of Auschwitz –
Your presence there then
would have only added another soldier,
another guard, another oven operator.
For you reason what you feel and fail to reason,
and know what you are closely exposed to know,
seeing truth as a mere adherence to fantasy logic.
And there is very little natural in your nature
wherein yourself has not been also contributive
to all the international misgivings:
agitating of interclass repression,
inflammatory of interpersonal prejudice –
docking it now in obstinacy
of this corrupt participating forum.
As if favoritisms were gifted from God
and written upon stone; such as
no amount of facts can dissuade you,
no body of evidence ever convince you,
no appeal for compromise can bring ease of moderation
to the tensions of your taut ideology.
Thy convictions convict you
and mallow your standing in the Karnak of true reform.
Deluded and diluted,
how can you criticize creatures of the past
who were no more enthralled by perversion than you?
Dr. Walter Boswell