40 Days Poem by Robert Joseph Martines Mr

Sin is inside.
And inside… isn't what it used to be.

I used to keep a fig leaf at the ready.
But one day, I ran out.
And nothing changed.
Weird.

Binary yielding too many zeroes.
Typical ritual. No improvement.
The pastor might have the virus—
The one that infects the narrator.

Let's play a game: Metaphor or Meta?
My saliva turned blue, and then black
If I never had a fig leaf,
I would've confronted sin.
If I never ate the apple,
I might never again be confronted with temptation.

But the truth is:
The truth is a lie—Since the beginning.

We were crafted by external serpents,
Little wave-like functions,
Mimicking oscillation.
We project serpents inward—Call them demons.

They echo in our decisions.
And decisions…
They quietly are the foundation of the Tree of Life.
But we forget what they're echoing.
And the echo becomes a virus.
It calls itself… the narrator.

Forty days.
Visceral.

No sound.
No light.
No serpents.
No parasites.

Just my heart, and my mind.
Undivided attention.
Inward.
.
Inward reflection manifested
As something larger than me—
Like Giants, or whales.

And when we live in darkness,
We begin the battle.
A real-life fairy tale.
Shadows, hidden by light.
Matching internal IQ
Light doesn't cast shadows on light

I was living a different life.

Facebook posts announcing funerals
For people who hadn't died.
Weather reports for events
That hadn't happened yet.

Cat naps.
Sleep at noon.
Showers at 2am.

I wasn't hallucinating.
I was doing the inner work
So profoundly, that the veil rippled.

The manifested serpent,
Devoid of disguise,
Stood between me and the last light in the room.

As if to say:
"You gave me nothing to feed on.
But I still want you to notice me."

I approached it without fear.

Like—
Just because I don't see you
Doesn't make you scary.
You were a part of me
And I've exorcized you
You only exist as a shadow,
but I hear you crying

We stood side by side.
Until I walked away.

The demon came back as a nightmare.
Bigger this time, larger than me.

It hugged me—
So tight, I thought it might kill me.

But I didn't scream.
I let it consume me.

I turned to dust.

Doubt…
Takes the form of the virus called narrator.

And with that doubt,
I scattered fragments of the real me.

But I took responsibility.
Tried to restart the universe.

Forty days.
And I came out the other end asking:

"This was crazy,
But if it gives me any credibility…
Where is the fucking moon? "