Tell me again,
from the where and when
of everything, then
explain to my ears
the battle of tears
lasting thru the years
of faith and fears.
Neither seen,
razor-edges keen,
from the child we wean
to the aged, who lean
to keep upright.
How can we separate
what we cannot incorporate
into our senses, disparate,
making us desperate?
The fears of faithful
addressed by the prayerful,
but never assuaged
to drive demons away.
But yet our dreads
often rear their heads,
creeping into our beds
and stealing our dreams.
They differ, or so it seems...
Both the gleams
of evidence unseen,
but we draw what our lives mean
from between
these influences.
Many a man
bases his plan
on the material, what he can
sense and prove.
He denies faith's power,
says it's facts' hour,
that the religious cower
behind superstitions that tower
over the hard reality
of what we can see.
Yet that man, he
lets his terrors free
to torment and bully
him into choices
not based on cold truth.
So don't chastise
one whose faith guides closed eyes,
for they see no disguise,
can evade sensory lies,
and follow a vision
that denies the division
between the spheres.
For their faith sees clear,
just as do your fears.
Both as spectral as each other,
alike, yet dissimilar
as sister and brother.
(c) 2017 Tortured Cyclone
