i think my divine reckoning will come
once the bad, a part of me, has truly
ballooned, and i’m left to an infinite sum—
atoning, though Him, as far as i can see.
i won’t notice it until the outside
becomes impossible, then, to discern,
with bad people leaving, at once, His side,
and, instead of suffering, taking a turn
for the worse, and willfully plotting to
ruin me—as if i had any other choice,
and could share my energy with ado,
for all, and make them, again, rejoice,
like going back in time to a body
that hasn’t begun to reject you,
and your idea of a good time. Be free,
dear friend, i might say, and do as i do—
turning out the bad and letting His light
penetrate the recesses of my mind,
sanitizing what has become a blight—
hidden from Him, against the will i find,
now, in the nick of time, facing an end,
the end of a cycle, taking the earth
down with it, and the things i’d mend,
if i hadn’t, by now, discovered their worth,
amounting to nothingness and a bribe
that i, praise God, completely ignore.
There would be no end to their diatribe,
if i took the bait, and opened the door.
So, at the end of a cycle, i suffer
a little more, put, by all, to the test—
to put, for us, a persistent buffer
between us and them—the sad bequest
of the devil, caught, for good, in the act.
Now, when i atone, the djinns pass away
in droves, driving them to their pact—
to turn up the sound so that i must pay.
Their addiction knows no earthly bounds,
and, increasingly, the chaos persists,
but it, for me, is not as bad as it sounds,
since my suffering, all in all, consists
of His love—passed down, yet, from the cross,
and bringing what’s heathen to a head,
Everybody, then, that might give a toss,
wakes up to realize they are not dead.