What If Truth Is A Lie Called 'God'? | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

Not your regular kind of poem

POEM 250: WHAT IF TRUTH IS A LIE CALLED 'GOD''?
my name is Stephen
and stones my first death did precede.
Forget reincarnation, I'm risen again
not the Sanhedrin to finger
as to tickle their hate
I'm here with a quill to prickle your faith.

that conjecture, as bestowed us, christened 'holy fear'
it's gone beyond 'what ifs'
it's another ‘lie’.
if you would please tell me
why faith be my first and ‘Last Supper’
and blood my sweet sin-pie
I'll swallow my pride.

you baptized me with doctrines without my will
and urge me embrace convictions I would not permit
this fear termed 'holy' you made me inherit
could only keep me faithful
until I taste of that tree.

where then is the efficacy of 'holy fear'
if the debt of Christ's remains
my soul cannot keep,
nor prayers you made us recite,
my heart cannot cleanse?

God and faith, are fear’s, coup de maître
it suits up wanton desires in a cloak of piety.
Free morals
Caged agents
Freethinkers
Atheists
Believers
Gentiles
Black man
all are mental epithets
hurled at human frailty to sustain 'holy fear'

from cradle to grave we're fed with holy lies
generations over shall feed on faith’s myth
and man shall loop on in a cage of fear’s façade

but what if I tell you truth is a lie called “God”!
will you remind me of Stephen
and stone be beneath sod?

#365DaysOfPoetry
#Pengician
#SSA

Enjoyed reading? Commenting is now easy.

I introduced Facebook Comment feature. Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Comments

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies" "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat" After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?" "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....

Jaachi Writes

Search This Blog