To The Demiurge Poem by Mary Champion

The Holy Spirit - thus they defined you-
in the mysterious incantations
that were all devoid of explanations.
As I passed from childhood and my doubts grew,
I came to believe that you were not true.
I encountered other designations-
names of gods from a myriad nations.
I found them all unbelievable too,
till I sensed your unwelcome intrusion:
'The Voice' I heard distinctly - in my head.
You - the silver-tongued slick entertainer
whose guile turned simple truth to confusion.
I am the Sun-god RA, that's what you said-
but Collective Unconscious sounds saner.

It was you - the snide serpent recorded
misleading poor Eve up the garden path,
her paradise lost in the aftermath,
as your thrice forked tongue's hissings distorted
the truth. Slyly spun facts you reported -
the visions behind ev'ry blood-soaked myth,
the warring religions Mankind's cursed with,
all result from delusions imported
from you. And, further clouding the issues,
our own personal prejudice meddles
with your scrambled messages ensuring
that bigoted minds put them to misuse;
and each lunatic demagogue peddles
his divisive, destructive outpouring.