We are striated too,
Like the plumage of Johnny Rook.
But for us, it is by the rub of life.
For so rubbed have we, been marked.
By being jogged along, trundled,
To and froe, all our lives.
We are like lowly ones
We are the flesh toned ones,
With stripes and scars.
We have been scorched too,
Just scratting along for a living,
Because we were born to be this way,
And be in the way.
We are like pivotal ones
We couldn’t choose, we,
The Collective of Selves;
Of me, myself and I, all of us.
But now, because we were deceived.
We choose to live
Beyond Thy ridden cave of beliefs.
We are like enlightened ones
We are castellated by the facts.
Our impulse is to survive.
It compels us towards the life scientific
To that which thrusts us forward.
That which attests, with its logic,
That the path of faith is in the Past.
We are like new-born godless ones
There is nothing here, Ontological.
No bread, nothing white, no wine.
Nothing lingering, just the three arrows of time.
With a flash, a kite and a key,
The soul has been dampened.
We are like bereft ones
We clash for the ordinary.
It is we who now speak in tongues, universal.
There is nothing here spiritual.
All that was to be taught has been lost
Nothing of you, will ever be learned.
And not one of us is to be burnt.
We are like self centred ones
It is how we confiscate from ourselves
The true means of life.
Thus we will have chosen,
Me, myself, and I,
The true means of death,
Selected of, for, and in the singular.