The flow by which
They claim your moral compass
Forms…
The channel we tune into,
So we remember to behave.
Jesus
The pipeline to our eternal father
Who sits; HIGH
Super Nova like heroine thumping into his collapsed veins…
And LOOKS low..
All the way down to the lowest ones,
Those pronounced dead
Before birth
The image of
Their cancer
Their AIDS
Their bullet wound to the head
Things never hidden from him….
In heaven, he’s a fucking hero.
Here on Earth, he’s a fucking accessory
Crimes against
EVERYTHING
And
EVERYONE
EVERYWHERE…
Why hasn’t he been arrested?
My pipeline..
This Jesus?
With his sticky finger followers
Filling their pockets with earthly money
For a heavenly cause..
From golden chariots
To chauffeur driven
special/limited edition
Expensive cars
Fit for Kings
All gifts from their conduit.
He who represented them
In the heavenly realm
He who shed his blood
On an old rugged cross,
on that dark Friday night
So that we can feel good about
Ourselves.
Satisfied with what we see
In the mirror.
Justified in the killings of thousands
Represented by our conduit,
Our pipeline.
The man who stands in between
You and the great wizard behind the curtain.
Who never shows his face
Because that would ruin the philosophy of FAITH…
Faith takes ignorance to believe
Ignorance takes blindness to achieve
Salvation is yours to receive
If only you go through your conduit..
Not the man dressed in all black?
Speaking through the spiritual filter?
Not even willing to make admitions of his own guilt?
But capable of obtaining your clearance into a highly guarded facility in the sky…
The Pearly Fort Gates
Where the only knocking done is
By the oppressed
The depressed
Who have repressed
A majority of the religious stress
Through the conduit
They confess.
Willingly giving up
The possibility for any kind of rest
Sold on lies of
Eternal games of chess
With a master designer
The father of our
Conduit…
©DLP2012
My Darkest Hour 