I read the holy books from end to end; and eighty more. modest compilers and grey men and apologist's, 'erasers', I call them, had reduced to sixty nine, or rather, were...but now, "you get your kicks on Route 66". There's something in that number, they adore, perhaps a door they've used, to hazard heaven, once or twice.
I studied history...of ancient buried times and lines, from many tomes, and any way I could, by any means, I read. Strange things, I wondered of, until, I realized...that scholars hide the real truth of those nights, those days, like squirrels hide their nuts, to save them for themselves...to savor them alone, knowing as they do, how tasty is a treasure, has been stolen, and was never, by admission, owned.
They licence only those, that stop their tongue, that seal their mouth, to study in their cursed vaults, the sacred things, that would confute the very lie's they've told and blessed, to lead all children down hell's wide and fatal road. That, 'sin by omission', always there; I used, to leverage against the hidden earth, and rolled it back a league or two.
There, beneath the rock...well, you know what I found...myself. I found myself there, buried, same as all, long side those other souls and sots, so long ago, that learned a thing or two, twas hid about the dead, were s'posed to stay that way too. Who care's? There was no one to change the score, they told themselves, with none to answer...why? Who cares.?
We do, I say, we do so, as we plod's along, still writing words, righting stones...whistling we, a little song, to make the graveyard charm...some merrier.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: by Adam Paquette, Haunted Fengraf
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