The questions that have perplexed the poet for ages, at once attacked me at the conclusion of the physical manifestation of prejudice, war, designed to destroy my physical body, which had now succumbed to being lodged into the darkest corners of the subconscious, festering as an inoperable lesion, fevered in the pitch of greatness, a wounding actually necessary for the souls acceptance of Christ. This is the writers Judgment, what kept alive Drownan these aching multitude of forlorn years. This capital request God most certainly hears. It is shame to see so many live to perish like the dead in the treeline there, fellow soldiers encamped, not even knowing what hit them, no longer able to draw spit or rub their hands before the fire, yet more who perish to live, unconcerned to pen their oblation to the Almighty with a cosmogeny more than an Our Father. The poet, the writer, the feign of the Gospels, makes such a literist never taste of death in the accumulation of the angels that remove the sickness, in mind and body. This I know is true. Jesus said it aright. The writer from a young age again, knows; this knowledge was given at birth in the Sacraments. He knows he is elect, an instrument of rejection, a man of pain, just as Isaiah deemed, a reflective side of the Savior in the annuated depth of the descriptive ruminations that spoke of a lesser man, of lesser men to come, yet fit the same supernal frame of psychology, physiognomy. Others that populate the ratiocinations of the writers domain are as driftwood upon the feral moorings of a muddied, secular evangelism that only cohabitates with meaning of ritual and nothing more. Christ seeks the essay well-phrased in all of us, the explanation and the music our living waters make as we stumble in the pools of our own sacred blood. It is a sensate orthodoxy that needs be unfurled among a sprawling mass of reckless, feckless, dejected, Pharisees. Their frenzy relies on wealth and propping up Religion as a wall to suffocate freedom and promulagate misery through hypocrisy and murder. Fom Drownan knew as a child in the last stains of the Dark Ages the apostasy and holocaust of the untruth. The monks gave him Truth to seek the flaming heart of Christ. The Crusades showed him an enemy for the first time, the brutal offspring of the darkness. A chemical interaction, a curse, designed by the evil one, saved him yet doomed him to hell, until the artillery barrage during mass on that Sunday afternoon in 1918, near the tidal drapes of the Somme River. That was when I endured the first day of the rest of my life.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 15:26:55 +0000