Is this the end of the Ceasefire already?
The Judeo-Christian contagion
It began not with a bang, but a breath,
a whispered law on barren stone,
a single thread, a filament of faith
to stitch a world of chaos to a throne.
A virus of the absolute, it spread,
a taxonomy of soul and sin,
that mapped the wilderness inside the head
and walled the ancient, tangled world within.
It touched the water and the common cup,
it blessed the sword and sanctified the crown,
a great inversion, teaching us to look not up,
but down on all the gardens not our own.
It fevered nations with a promised end,
a linear history, a chosen race,
to every question, one truth to append,
and leave no uncontested, sacred space.
The body, once a temple of desire,
became a suspect thing, a source of shame,
its instincts doused in apocalyptic fire,
its pleasures given a devil's name.
And we, the carriers, the long-possessed,
who bear this heritage in blood and bone,
now feel the old and aching unrest—
the ghost of something wild, overthrown.
Is it the sickness, or the only cure?
The prison walls, or the foundation stone?
The contagion that we must, at last, endure,
or the fever-dream we now outgrow?
$14,000 from Qatar?
The Judeo-Christian contagion
It began not with a bang, but a breath,
a whispered law on barren stone,
a single thread, a filament of faith
to stitch a world of chaos to a throne.
A virus of the absolute, it spread,
a taxonomy of soul and sin,
that mapped the wilderness inside the head
and walled the ancient, tangled world within.
It touched the water and the common cup,
it blessed the sword and sanctified the crown,
a great inversion, teaching us to look not up,
but down on all the gardens not our own.
It fevered nations with a promised end,
a linear history, a chosen race,
to every question, one truth to append,
and leave no uncontested, sacred space.
The body, once a temple of desire,
became a suspect thing, a source of shame,
its instincts doused in apocalyptic fire,
its pleasures given a devil's name.
And we, the carriers, the long-possessed,
who bear this heritage in blood and bone,
now feel the old and aching unrest—
the ghost of something wild, overthrown.
Is it the sickness, or the only cure?
The prison walls, or the foundation stone?
The contagion that we must, at last, endure,
or the fever-dream we now outgrow?
$14,000 from Qatar?