Keystone

To be free from the darker arts, our

contriving of forms reversely onto the

foreground of natural history.

Shamans and soothsayers gazing

backwards, trading the naked now for

trinkets of lore and laud, we trouble ourselves with

tradition, we glory in our conquests of the lesser then.

If Jesus was anything more than a man, he was a

wolf. Seething into our herd of ailments, his iridescent

eyes grew fixed on the slaughter of the distortions of

dominionists. No wonder we killed him as we

kill him today. We dress him in purple and

crown him with jagged misattributions. He was

predator come to thin the ranks of our diseased

confidences, to strengthen our substance. As with

any whose truth is too real to destroy, he haunts

our dreams and howls to the moons of our deepest

instincts. He has done his bloody work and left

those of us still standing to walk each trail of

faith that leads to the new earth. Let us see

Creation as it is.

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