Inge Haupt
Chewing CudArchive for Godless
The Soul’s Passage
The souls line up like a million stars,
A river of billowing light and song.
Before them a passage of hours and days,
Behind them the throng
Of heaven’s voices.
Their wing tips humming with the deep thrumb
Of creation.
For behind and below and betwixt and before
Suns, moons, stars and galaxies fall
And rise,
Spinning.
Their incandescent song praising celestial choices.
The passage forged in the bowels of the earth
With fire and brimstone and hands of despair,
Coiled and contorted on a blistering potter’s wheel,
Then finally released into netherwhere.
Born into limbo,
Its cold, hot heart begins to beat;
Its diamond sides glow and pulsate with a soft, low song;
Its spirit awakens and is ready
To beat, burst, thrust
From the belly of the earth;
Through the tearing pain of the mother’s womb,
Through the brimming tears of the father’s soul,
Through space, through time, through the highest hereafter
To the brink of nothingness,
Where stars sing, angels thrumb
And light-clad souls stand at the threshold of eternity.
She glances down at her iridescence,
Diamond-clad soul with the fate of mankind clasped to her breast.
Beside her, the thick cocoon of joy and song
Is rent.
Into the bellowing breach, darkness bubbles through.
A screaming, fearing, thrashing pierces the throng,
Forcing its way through the billowing light and song,
As warders bring her, the doomèd one.
The closer she gets to her passage of pain
The fainter her glow.
Her cloth of light and song fade
As she is torn from divinity;
Light shredded from her being
on the grater of Godless servitude.
Clothed in darkness
And forced to eat the bitter stew
That no mother’s pity, nor father’s sweat could assuage.
The Tea-Leaf Reader – A Sonnet – Part 2
Come closer still, there is another soul:
A rupture of glorious space and time.
In darkness bubbling, the threshold, un-whole
She crossed. The universe rent down the line.
Religion is bought by your father’s grace.
No Cane nor Abel can now save your soul.
Your spiritual veil torn from your face.
You come to this world poor, lonely, un-whole.
For meaning she strives, philosophers read.
Nor religion, nor art, her to light leads.
Immerses in love and books of the dead,
While through vacuous heart and soul she still bleeds.
Abomination, Godless mutation.
Mankind uses you now, the forsaken.
The Dark One
No God, no devil, no light.
She’s an orphan in fields of grey.
Kierkegaard offers no hope or respite;
The Saviour, the Buddha, no joy of enlight
And death comes only her soul to forsake.
This is the child born of malice and spite.
No divine creation, no genetic mutation,
A fallacy of love, consecrated delight.
Her hollow soul longing to be filled:
A cavity feeding rapacious on love, lust and desire.
Nor Antony, Nor Caesar could placate her dire need,
Nor Osiris, nor Oberon, nor Trojan fire,
Nor Juno’s ire.
For the Romans still come and ransack your beauty,
Desecrate your idols. The Templars bring mutiny.
And you walk through the streets trailing your shadow of grey
And your tears cannot fall on your pale, cold skin;
For they would assuage the sorrow of your soul,
Bring God, man, even Satan to sate your genetic un-whole.
But now, pale creature; nymph that walks in the ombre
Feeding off love and ether in empty, cold bars.
The great Roman generals lured and drawn in
By the gleam of your eyes, the flush of your skin,
The curve of a tress round a diamond-clad ear.
Unbeknownst on the threshold of darkness they stand,
Where your soul is ash, falling year by year
Through the sieve of time.
Hold onto your beauty, glorious child of no Lord
For that is all your sire could afford.
