Mysticism is at the heart of all true religion. Experiencing the mystic, the sublime, may involve wooing over generations, even eons. However, on some inexplicable occasions, mystic experiences fuel an incinerator that lays waste to all convention and worldviews. The beautiful part of this parent destruction is rebirth like a phoenix from the ashes. True freedom emanates from this place. Awe life arises from this hearth. This poem is but an embarrassingly dim recounting of such occasions.
What Counts?
She recounted
In awe earnestness
A hi spiritual truth
That the spark of the divine is
In every person
I didn’t have the art to tell her
That God
Is a fucking flamethrower
Incinerating every tenant of your whirled view
Kiln all that you ever love
Every cherished precept
Every earned emotion
Every vicarious virtue
Every body of sow called knowledge
Roasting every dogma
The ash hole of every vice releasing
Kraken every bad joke imaginable
Till awe cremains
Soully to find yourself
As if
Razed from the dread
Singing a sublime song
Nothing you cant
In cite
