The old religion of love

So much screaming, as the flames they get higher

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

I do not think
But I am living under this mountain,
That might crush the life out of me
Any time, any day,
So, I drink anyway.
Too much grandiosity
Dims the soul
Makes us old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, screaming when on fire,
So much screaming, as the flames they get higher:
Hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura
All of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.
A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake
The old religion love, for love’s own sake.

The beautiful Cathars*
Heard a rumble far below
Looked on the surface,
Saw nothing, only snow.
Hares’ prints lead me,
Track me to this folly
Red berries on
The christmas holly:

Soon, I shall go into a hare,
I know
With sorrow and sych
And meickle, meckle care;
And I shall go in the Devil’s name,
And aye, while I…