The Lapsed Humanist
Periodic releases of excess ruminating
Loss is an impossible gulf, and grief, that darting shadow fathoms deep. Pain is an ocean through which oars move tender. I am aflame with rage at her detractors. Defilers! Their poison worked slow. Vile, laborious death. What torments she endured! How hard was her skin? How set her nerve? What bond encased so frail a body that she endured so nobly torrents of castigation and opprobrium? And always, those eyes, curtains to inner pains, held up, even, steady, a rifle set against brooding forces ever in her midst, flecked horror could not outdo their luster. And now, her cutlass tongue eternally sheathed Her fiery, delicate spirit conjoining with the elements, Only now might she rest in the serenity oft denied her physical self. May her legacy be a constant lash at the hides of the craven, the perverse, the callow, the malicious, the viper hordes who hounded her. Who nettled her. Who tried to silence her with chains. For the crime of being a truth-teller, a seer, a woman who dared speak up. The woman who would not be led. Tonight, hold in reverence her voice of power (beacon) her lyrics of wisdom (pillar) her gaze of strength (titanium) and her life of resolve (presence).
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AuthorAll posts in this (infrequent) blog follow CP style. Facts are checked by me, but I am open to debate their veracity. All media will be credited as correctly as possible. Archives
January 2024
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