Ultimatum Of The Holy Man




Title art by L.H. Grey




If any man destroys the temple of God, God will destroy him, for the temple of God is holy, and that is what you are.

Corinthians 3:17




Do not tell me what I am, old man
Form assumptions on my character when you never had the decency to answer me when I came to you
Have long since lost count of just how many times
I did as you requested and confessed each petty crime
Pleaded for forgiveness
And with God as my sole witness
A blind eye was turned every single last time


Not to my wrongdoing
But to the emotional ruin that had threatened to engulf me at any given moment
For all that I touched now appeared to be broken
But not a word was ever spoken
Would have taken any offer of condolence at this point
Had it not been stolen away without my prior say so


You could see I was waylaid
Yet no mind was back paid
To the fact that I was quite visibly pained
Indeed, had you had things your way
Then I unquestionably would have remained so


Trapped in a shell which no longer fitted quite so well
With nothing to show for my undermined faith than this throwaway halo
The combined weight of a lifetime of bearing your cross
Resulted in the loss of any innocence prevailing
Not certain if I was more afraid of dying than of failing


But whatever way I looked at it
I was crucified long before my persecutors hammered the nails in
Was clearly in no fit condition to play martyr
And while Stigmata was a novel inclusion
Each weeping contusion curiously cried your name
O, heavenly father


A coincidence perhaps
After all, they do say the lord he doth work in mysterious ways
What they fail to inform of is the poor form you show
While your disciples gloss over your self-given right to play devious games
Your Imperial Gaze is one of vitreous haze
Can see right through you
In Cimmerian Shade
Don’t be fooled by my state of delirium
For my tears no longer froze into ice once I queried them
Delved a little deeper into your written criteria


It would appear you glean some kind of sick kick from your congregation fearing you
Like lambs awaiting slaughter they kneel at your altar
Eager to be baptized in your name
But while your holy water sanitizes
And shears these sheep until such time as you deem them presentable
Some of us are wolves
And we hold you in contempt of tailoring the rules to suit your own bent agenda
Let it be known that I abhor your referendum
For it serves your own ends
And makes a great pretender out of you


Had a skinful of your truth
Now it’s time for the dare
Glance over to the left and you shall see me right there
Mark each word I say for I’d be well within my rights to make you pay for what you’ve done
Not a solitary finger raised as you watched me come undone
But one very much pointed as I was shepherded away to a place where I would never see the sun
Turns out you done me a favor
Who would have thought you’d turn out to be my savior
For no rights duly equates to nothing whatsoever left to waiver


A six that plays nine saves time
And the number of the beast saves three times the fluids
Which, if nothing else should appease the druids
Meanwhile, the kingdom you claim to have built in six days and five nights lies in ruin
For the legion are many and we tend to learn fast
Know precisely what it is you’ve been doing


The left-hand path leads us not into temptation
But affords us reconfiguration
No judgement is passed
Decree set in place
If there were, then from what I have heard
These devils would have a most compelling case to misplace their airs and graces


No faces that shift
Lies on the tips of forked tongues
Sometimes it pays to populate the bottom rung
And go about your affairs free of everlasting gazes


This is my home now
And should you wish to remain here
Then I suggest that you address each of the topics being raised here
Do not wish to see you fail
As you know better than any other that this will never be our way here
Have no need for ghost writers
If we wish to have our say
But just to make this plain
We will not be standing by while our left-dressing brethren are so callously slain
Which I guess makes the next move for you
Choose it wisely old man
Go on, surprise me







Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill



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