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(NOTICE:  Poem has undergone revision after critique posted)



  

The saints and aints war till an end

unendingly so bloody,

that anyone would be hard-pressed

to guess who will burn below.



From the vineyards of evolution,

we aints are fed with sense and reason.



Because we think for ourselves

and say that we are gods,

the saints come down upon us

--pummeling with their parchment pumice.



The saints press our brains,

fermenting our remains

to make an incomparable vintage.

Into vile chalices

We are poured, to be consumed

at their unholy communion.



For each aint they terminate,

the saints collect more golden stars

to glitter their report cards,

hoping to catch I AM'S eye

for a better grade.



The Saints stone every god

that never left his tomb

--Allah, Buddha and Ganesa;

they stone their followers, too.



Like the dinosaurs before

--if ignorance persists,

both saints and aints will be extinct.

Can or will we unify?

There is little hope, I think.



That said, we aints submit our farewells

from the trees to which we were nailed,

as we descend into the inferno:

That place which we will share

with the saints.



(revised 08/14/09. Original composed in 2005)