by Benjamin Smith-Donaldson

They worship the ancient guru's feet,
Down on thier knees, unconditionally.
They pray, they bow, they worship graciously
But what does he give? Not drink, nor bread, nor meat.
Have even I seen through this mighty feat,
Or is it still shrouded, ominously?
Is the guru really high and mighty,
Or does it really guid us through the sleet?
Maybe we all need a God, Allah, Shiva--
A thing to show us the way through the dark.
We all need a higher power sometimes;
Perhaps no gad, but goddess or diva.
Whatever we choose as our guiding spark--
It is there to watch us live, die, and dine.

The Apocalypse nears with each passing day.
There will come the rains, mingled with blood and fire, falling from on
And a third of the green grass will be burnt up,
And there will come locusts and plagues.
From the hills will follow armies, ready to maim.
And they will die. The world will die.
But death is not the end, for the creator is merciful.
He has chosen those to be with him, by his side.
And the Apocalypse will be justified.
For from the deaths of evil shall come the rightiousness of life.
And we shall be there, behind a mortal God,
As we await the Creator,
And watch the Apocalypse.

They watch him as he does his dance,
Weaving gracefully with much romance.
They watch and quiver with his slighest view,
But know not what they see him do.
They see him jump and leap and fly,
But they see not him, who's bound to die.
They see him as he shows them life,
Through his dance, achieved with strife.
But they fail to see what is most plain:
That they've invaded his private domain.
It is from them that he will fall,
When a sudden cheer causes him to stall,
Because to this man, it's not a dance.
He knows what follows is death's lance,
But they hold him there, so high in standing,
And all are so so demanding.
But they see not that his is only show.
They see not the archers bow.
Only he, who's doomed to die,
Can see the flame in the archers eye.
But he knows that it's time to go,
And he's tired of the show.
For they see not the impossible work,
Nor do they see an assassin's dirk.
He does more than a little dance,
For a ruler has much to chance.
And the people cheer and wave and bow,
And only one knows it's coming. How?
For he is the one who will slaughter the cow.
Okay, this one's a little deep, and a few have found it beyond their
comprehension, but I like to speak using metaphors, so let that lead you
unto the dance

All poetry is Copyrighted 2000 by Benjamin Smith-Donaldson