What stirs the passion, raising the boiling blood to dreadful pang,
Creeping out from cranky crevices with reminiscences of high shouldered innocence,
Railing jabs with unnatural left-handed javelin, Gawking with belching blighted bile of bitterest belligerence?
No, not so much the pouring out from unstained incubating womb manured with undefiled seed, No.
Nor from worthy encounter at the crooked foot of the Cross. No.
Nor from a schooled stainer moral stretch to justify the righteous angst. No.
But a transmuted condemnatory verdict on others, their exuberant dreaded escapades, a self-assured refiner’s strength. Ah!
A thousand devil-possessed lads may have belched urine-ruined liqueur on the polished marble steps of the incandescent lane, casting a sepulchral silhouette on the silky whitened garb,
But does their admitted folly worth the self-moral angst, when it can’t lighten your ornamental alley,
Nor the venom purge the untamed heart,
Nor smoothen the way for your easy stroll into heaven’s Pearl Gate?
Oh, how self-deluded Man has been from Adam’s defiled cradle,
Stalked by weak moral fibre hoisted on wobbling mud-dled foundation, he carries an overbearing weight of transmuted guilt, a metastasis of another’s cancerous bile.
Soothed, not by a regenerative brake-off nor redemptive bearing from Adam’s universal straining stain
But an accusatory snarling, with mangled and strained fangled fingers, to a neighbor’s worser baggage.
After all, like Nkem Nwankwo’s satiric chest-thumbing Mercedes, my morals, they say, is bigger than yours. Aha!
Like the verdict of those starchy, self-conscious, Sanhedrin assemblage of Pharisaic men,
Or the self-righteous supplicant in the polluted altar that regales the Lord of his nature’s minted innocence, the condemned must bear his guilt to the grating womb of the insatiable grave, notwithstanding the acquittal by the Justifier.
But they, oh they remain, themselves, unmoved, with the beam of their weightier baggages of judgmental odiousness, to cast stones like on the woman caught in the very act, whilst they remain enslaved in Eve’s leaves of unhidden nudity.
To the moral standoffish self-righteous judges, the new birth experience matters not but the blackened bleached blighted past, which, rather than the contrite sin-bearer, haunts the self-conscious prideful man.
Riddled in petty prance, fully drunk with belching recriminations, they cluster in unison in their ceaseless mock at the 35th season of their skillful schadenfreudial sneering.
Oh, may man be free from his delusional voyage into the abyss as the rapturous Day draws nearer.
