~ a poem

The Confusion of Tongues, 1868 – Gustave Doré

It all started with the word.

Language split us even as it connected us.
The nightmare mind of humanity’s reifying alienations and exploitations,
it sourced off pages.

Handed down from on high,
Lexicon became law.
“Our” land summoned illusory walls that we soon built.

A false world birthed,
The Demiurge was written.

Roads and towers,
Capital and information,
Monies and madness,
Conquest and calamity,
Novelty and confusion,
Immiseration and estrangement.

We layer new worlds into the tapestry every day.
Fashioners and not Creators,
Creative yet fallible,
Fast and competitive,
We urge demons into the fold.

Selfish and material,
Alienated and afraid,
We persist in painting on a canvas handed down from way back.

With beautifully terrifying strokes of crimson,
The Demiurge turns the world into a business,
And our hearts to stone.

The Demiurge is alive and well.
You are its host.

The Demiurge defies humanity in place of a growing void that devours without malice or reservation.

The Demiurge sprawls and mutates because this is its nature.

Many have born and died under such a veil.
Generations of pain pulse within our guts.
Life screams for the false world to shatter.
Man’s spirit needs no interlocutor.

Hope horizons with the thought of new pages,
And the power to pick up the pen.

Anything man-made can be unmade.
The Demiurge is mortal, like us.

It houses many potentialities,
mortal protectors and mortal destroyers.

For the final battles,
I reckon we’ll need pens and swords,
One for each hand.
Two for both minds. ~

The Ancient of Days, 1794 ~ William Blake