Or, Of Love or Religion or Whatever – You Tell Me. By S.R. Torris
You know when you write something from inspiration? There is a burning fury that runs through your mind and you must exorcise it or be eaten alive. You spend minutes, which seem like hours or hours that seem like seconds before your soul has been made bare and there it is, your confession.
Then you read it. And I’m telling you this happens to the best of us, your intent never translates through the finished product. You could be writing a poem about love lost and found and lost again, a story about being beaten by a stepparent and the revenge you take, or a treasure found in a strange place but when others read it, it turns out to be their favorite bedtime story. They see it as an adventure taken once you step into a magical bathroom stall at McDonald’s!
“But I only mentioned McDonald’s as a location for the character to meet the bane of his existence,” you may say. It won’t matter, your audience is already taken away on their journey and the irony is you’re in a wholly different place even though you’re the author of their trip.
Sometimes you write something and read it again and discover you wrote something else. That’s the case for me with the following poem. I know what I wrote, how I felt when I wrote it, why I wrote it… I’m reading it again and realize that it doesn’t have the same voice, in fact, it’s a completely different subject altogether.
Ladies and Gentlemen, submitted for your perusal and your interpretation. Please get lost in the translation.
Idol Worship by S.R. Torris
I am here
At the scene of the crime
Wondering when began my heart’s intrusion.
Conquered my fear
And seemed not to mind,
Furthering my grand delusion.
Idol worship was but idle worship
On cracked pedestal, too far in air.
Blinding potions, mixed with lofty notions
Chasing after what was never there.
Fierce derisions made haste decisions
And shattered mirrors lay at my feet.
Truths so real but were never seen,
The portrait painted, incomplete.
I ripped the Hammer from the hand of Thor
Shango owned it first, you see.
A mighty Ax it was before
Its lightening fuels the strength in me.
Thunderous sounds, my clarion call
Warning chameleons to keep at bay.
I am human, slept on the fifth
And god rested on the seventh day.
But there’s no Sabbath held for me
Only Pharisees in fallacies speak.
Spinning tomes spectacularly
I listened too, for I was weak.
Took hold the Ax and cast it down
Did smite the muse right where she stood.
Ruptured illusion her tongue was bound,
A broken heart may do some good.
The idol sits on table bare, minute,
And yet it’s all quite clear.
Ochosi walks with me, take care,
There’s nothing left for me to fear.
I was here
Left the scene of the crime
Have cast out my heart’s intrusion.
Shed no tear
And have peace of mind,
Knowing it was all illusion.