No right to life,
No right to death,
Existential battles with a forsaken priest,
An outcast, a believer in his own god,
Himself as the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
He uses magic and Episcopal dialogue
To pummel my soul into insatiable pulp.
My incorporeal being the priest wants to sculpt,
But my only resistance is the Sacred Book,
A book of repellents and retorts,
A book of violence and nurturing lyrics.
But before its end, I see the truth,
The truth that this is the priest,
In grammatical form, another master,
Which tears at the shell of my soul,
Wanting to replace my guttural voice,
With something condescending and heavenly.
But I will not sour my roots so easily,
Not allow them to be soiled by putrid flesh.
The only option lies between life and death,
The indefinable, the inexplicable,
The choice that neither priest nor book,
Can fathom with their dualist rhythms.
I ascend to the throne, obsolete and vain,
Ready to seek the unseekable,
Ready to travel beyond the universe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.