Diatribe of the Godless

Disconnect me forever
from a Heaven I've never seen;
whose empty opiate lullabies
never reached me.
Leave me here in the dust
to rot with the rest in time.

Hide my eyes from the face
of all your stillborn gods
that I may drink in the gaze
of the wheeling stars,
that the clockwork of creation
may wash over me unimpeded.

These are not my things
piled up around me,
this detritus of desperation
that threatens to bury me,
choke my breathe,
leave me crippled.

Mine are not the empty mandates
of the ineffective past.
Mine are not the laws of the mad.
Mine are the songs of life, the agony of birth.
Mine is the silence of death
and the glory of the dawn.

Ours is the soul of stone, the soul of fire.
Ours is the soul of the tide and the wind,
ours the soul of the tempest.
Ours is the soul of creation
that consumes and engenders,
devours itself that it may remain.

Ours is the memory of the longest past,
ours the promise of the untold future.
Ours is the kingdom of nothingness,
ours is the kingdom of everything.
Ours is the kingdom of Heaven.
Ours is the kingdom of Earth.