The Futility of the Mortal Plight
By John Ogden


Electrical impulses
Interpreted by your brain;
Tell you who you are,
And where you are,
Through passages
Of intricate artifice.
As of some being,
A god or not,
Some great orchestrator
Who holds the keys
To future and past
Dangling both before us,
Like so many carrots on sticks,
Before a starving horse.

And what of the divine
That would presume
To torture us so?
No divine could it be,
For any being,
Be it god or no,
That would cater to man,
Would need both patience
And love, with but a dose,
A sprinkle of restraint,
For the needs of Humans
Are fleeting and trivial.
Mere bumps in the path
Of a great, grinding machine.

Society;
What a wonderful word.
To sum up the whole
Of human consciousness
In but a single clump of sound,
Ah, it seems a travesty.
But no greater sin,
Than the tyranny visited
Upon the unlucky,
When beside the blessed one,
Who’s life the divine hath touched.
What a terrible pain to know,
That your father in heaven,
Hath forsaken you.

Yes! He hath forsaken you!
And left you for the dogs!
Those dogs who snarl
through day and night,
Starving and lusting,
Just beyond the perimeter.
The lit circle, cast by
The dying lamp of your life,
Ravening for your sweet flesh,
ready to move in
and finish you off,
When that lamp,
Your only protection against the night,
finally sputters and like life, dies.

And so,
When you wake up
Cold-sweating in the night,
Remember that no matter
Your standing in a church,
All people stand equal
In the eyes of god,
Save those
who the divine hath smiled upon,
But fear not this tyranny of heaven,
For it is they who truly suffer.
As they are no longer men.
They are hollow puppets;
Not angels or prophets
For they are truly demons.

- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.