The whistling of an angry voice
Woman lays up the warning from a distance
The human blasphemy, I somehow utter.
Its bliss and its tragedy
Foaming at the mouth in a play of wizardry.
Sorcerers, shadows, dark bias of interior planes
Careening out of control
Pushing, expanding, rifling out like the sparks of wildfires
Gone, those hideous liberators, exempt now from such fetid goings-on
Bunkers, foxholes and dragon lairs molded by witchery.
Deadly spirits create and inhabit divine bodies
Rife with killing, sweat drunk on salvific power.
I see my own soul flying, floating, weeping, laughing.
A whirlwind of hysteria unknown to prior generations.
And why? Idiots!
Because the soul inevitably fails to rise high enough.
Its tools, its loves, its desires, and its knowledge notwithstanding.
This earth is simply the locus of earth souls.
And so far, not even the greatest of martyrs
Have been able to change that.
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