Originally posted 10/22/2015; revised, 4/2016; revised again, 5/8/2016.

I have seen too often
how much of the holy I know
was made by devils — 

I should burn this church without mourning.
I light it, but I cannot smile while I do.
I’m sorry.

Nothing’s shining now under the sun.
What I know, what made me,
whatever I have made my own

is problematic, a fallen forest full of shock.
Felled trees row upon row,
no one seems to have heard a thing.

I should have known.
Should have been listening all along
for the sound of clear cutting.

Evil disguised itself
as birdsong and brook,
hymns to the betrayed sun,

slew and laid waste on my watch.
All the holy I know
devils’ work,

and it falls upon me now
with a roar like a deadfall,
a huge and broken tree.

I’m sorry, but I do mourn it
a little. I mourn it as it falls upon me.
I’m sorry for mourning,

but I do, even as I see
the need for this reckoning,
even as I join in a call for it.

Once-honored voices
have failed so miserably
at being their professed truth; 

they are part of what I am, 
as is now my disgust 
at how I have loved them; 


as is my confusion 
at how I love them, even now,
knowing what I know.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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