An Agnostic's Hymn Poem by Jay Bradley

Books convince only those who have no thoughts of their own,
Their conceptions of the mighty wind blowing against the sands of time,
Tends to be what keeps them strolling in a line,
Tends to be what keeps the kingdom on it's throne,

But all the same, what they say can only be the same,
Children of men, men from above and their perfection,
But what is perfection plus emotion if not deception,
And the gentle lamb is nursed and hid away by the crazy dame;

They gather at the appointed time at the appointed place,
Much like how geese always know in winter to fly south,
So too knows the flock since the mother placed her bread in mouth,
Even though it's only been words by these hands and face;

It's because the wind flies unseen yet still is felt,
That somehow causes none to doubt the choir,
That the wind blows the leaves and hinders the wire,
But when wind is seen to be true, they fold the house they're dealt;

But what would you think of misery if not with company,
And what would you think of the blocks in the sand,
If not without the touch and grace from orders so planned,
Unless misery is just a place and time and obscenity;

Notice too how many ride east in the name of defense,
While their leaders rest easy behind walls of distance and plains,
While the unknown dimensions covet the sacred jewels hidden beyond the planes,
Though they aren't the only culprits who confuse noble and malevolence;

So amazing is the grace by the bellows of the guitar
That power in waves of the zealot convictions hammered on the door,
Written to the tune that hums the song of the plowman's moor,
So amazing is the truth that all plans differ, depending on the star;

A dry-mouthed being lost in the desert knows surely of oasis,
This is so only on account of another having plowed the trail,
Yet they can't count themselves as pure, just the first to not fail,
There are many footsteps between snakes and cacti to the hidden bases;

The weak foundation dwindles under the pressure of heavy rocks,
And a hungry soul rides easy upon the meat of hearty shoulders,
Walls like straw dogs crumble under the siege of the catapult's boulders,
Those with out cause fear the close of the clicking clocks;

Oh how ignorance is nothing but the indifference of the many,
Oh how the bells rang and blood slipped down the sacred staircase when so thought the few,
Yet only a fool looks to the ground but not the sky for the morning's dew,
And t'is they who kiss the shoe beneath the crown of a false destiny;

So lonely they believe is the house that hasn't hanged their heavenly flag,
It seems that without any direction the rose depicts denial,
To go beyond the end of the time is hemorrhage suicidal,
So grave to err the way of calling out the devil's hag,

Who kneels on mats and holds the gloved hands of their friend,
So as to summon the wisdom and clench the conquerors courage,
Only to believe that the balance lends just to their carnage,
How benign their hopes that the elephant stone can change the river's bend;

I say this only: the way is not alone to the highest known peak,
The mortal journey ruled by the fear of brass-handled nihilism,
And the assertion that He controls the mind of this cloud-bedecked prism,
Can only be true to all if those who differ burn before they speak.