The truth of scripture is this:
you were never meant
to replace God
with scripture.
They were given
to point,
not to reign,
not to become a throne,
not to substitute the Source.
Whenever you excuse cruelty,
whenever you tolerate injustice,
whenever you bless harm
in holy language,
whenever you dress in violence
in sacred names,
you have already forgotten
why scripture was breathed
into our souls.
You have traded
conscience for quotation,
presence for permission,
the living sun
for a cozy lantern,
your pointing finger
for the moon.
These worlds were made
to teach us the Word,
not to bury it
beneath words and worlds,
not to cage it
inside creeds.
And so we see it everywhere:
in poems that shout for silence,
in prayers, afraid to listen,
in reeds torn from their fields,
like headless birds,
belief twitching without mercy,
devotion staggering without soul,
faith reduced to slogan,
truth reduced to banner.
All this trembling.
All this shouting.
All this rehearsed passion.
All these rituals,
summing to no virtue.
This is thirst.
Parched lips curling inward,
souls folding into themselves,
crawling toward what they have lost—
toward the Word,
toward the forgotten perfection
written in their hidden DNA
before they learned
to excuse its absence.
And in all these
shivers,
jerks,
whirlings,
and holy spasms,
are our prayers.
Are our witnesses.
They are the bridge
between what is written
and What Is.
