Christ's Mass in the Third MillenniumSubmitted by Molusk on Wed, 12/04/2013 - 22:43
It still goes on.
The bells resound faintly, as if the air itself were anemic.
Like the groggy, half sleeping, final flutterings of a dream, people still shuffle into churches.
But do they really mean it? Is there any heart left in it?
Are we, you, still expecting him to arrive, this late?
How many are still alive with the spirit of expectation?
Are any of us still really Christians?
Crosses stand guard for the dead.
Boxes waiting to be dumped in holes, draped flags a consolation prize, the cross a sop to the bereaved.
Crosses abound only among the dead, the living can't show them.
Only in service to worldly carnage are they still permitted, standing to vindicate slaughter.
Walk into a store, bowed holly and lit trees line the path to sales, and savings plenty!
The last lights go out, the last Christians bleed out in Syria, Egypt, Iraq.
Eden is watered with cut throats, the body of Christ is devoured in a ghastly inversion of the sacrament.
The old houses of God are burned, the temple of the body is desecrated with rape and pillage.
Innocents cry out, and are not revenged, while gifts are wrapped with care. Snug under the tree!
Hordes descend to eradicate the last of them and his name from the land.
The rotting, sickly hand of Empire joins with the young, barbaric creed to maul the last of his name, as of old.
In the birthplace of the child, new iniquity flourishes.
A people are daily tortured, like some great macabre reenactment of the passion, planted on the last inhabitants of that land.
The accounts must be balanced.
Surely a list with many check marks is being drawn, but it isn't Santa's.
When the curtain closes on this terrible play, be far away.
Merry Christmas, to the Faithful and the Open Hearted!