Saturday, August 13, 2016
It's the Contest
The destroyer is a spirit, a corrupted zeitgeist.
But in spite of his apparent worldwide heist,
he is no christ.
He's eloquent in spreading fear
while whispering in your ear.
She slides in on a sled of doubt
chewing up our courage, then spitting it out.
He serves up fodder for defeat;
she slices delectable discouragement for meat.
The destroyer fastens our attention
on cultivating nervous tension.
He's obsessive with dismay;
she casts hope and care away.
excrutiatingly excellent excuses
to focus on all those world-driven abuses
for which we have no productive uses
so that accomplishments can be decimated,
and defeat elevated
to a sordid art form
so as to blot out our war-torn
as if by atomic fission.
Hey, they say,
it's all going to blow someday,
maybe the big one even comes today.
The destroyer will habitually say
conspiracy is the order of the day,
and rational order has been put down
as we're all just fooling' around.
She says decency went out with the tide,
been cast aside,
and integrity is dead
and that we should just party down instead
because the whole damn system is fixed
for sure, bewitched
and our course cannot be switched
cuz life's a bitch,
not a beach.
So don't bother to reach
Just glory in the art of pout.
We'll make of complaint an art form
and criticism a craft, to adorn
our death-wish thanatos
with exquisite, tragic loss.
On the other hand
as far as the east is from the west,
in spite of all that, we could be supremely blessed.
The comforter says you can do this;
your arrow is not destined to always miss.
If the system is rigged what does it matter;
your hopes and dreams aren't doomed to splatter
on the mean streets of this world
because the true kingdom is not of this world;
it displays a flag unfurled,
that flutters in our heart
urging us to start
a work, an art
to begin anew
a place for me and you
a place in the son
no matter what the gun
to make us turn and run
from the challenges of this screwed-up life.
We can overcome and defeat this strife
by faith, by hope, by true love,
bestowed to us from above
if we can allow the destroyer in us to be crucified.
On a cross of sacrifice, that enemy has died,
and to its own defeat is tied.
But I'm not tied to it;
they can't make you do it.
Death doesn't have to overcome me, nor defeat you;
I tell you true.
We shall rise above it all
if you can hear the call
of resurrected victory
for you and me:
He's signaling from the other side
if you can resist the tide
of death-wish thanatos
and the destroyer's proposed eternal loss.
You may hear otherwise,
but death itself in the end just dies.