Gospel Truth

Like all fairytales you’ve been sold —

breathing nightmares in cabaret cloaks —

this one too begins at

once upon a time.

There were two of them:

a man and a demi-god.

The man had ambitions;

the demi-god dwelt in agendas.

The man believed in building a better world,

while the demi-god dreamed of one built around him.

Yet they came together as one —

as differences often do

in the wake of opportunity.

Hope is an addictive opioid.

The hope of revolution — a holy cocktail of narcotics.

Together, they sold it like a pharmacist and bureaucrat

would in times of cholera and consumerism.

Like every fresh distraction on display,

they set up shop before they knew it.

While the man held his apprehensions,

this was the demi-god’s moment of truth.

Before the man could unclench his jaws,

the demi-god filled his mouth

with false prophecies —

while addicts knelt

at the temple of false hope and decadence,

clapping at every miracle of faith

the demi-god pulled from his hat.

Men make gods.

But demi-gods?

Creatures of unhinged narcissism—

turning praise into prayers before sunset.

Once you’ve convinced yourself of this fallacy,

to the mindless manic of bewitched addicts —

you’re God.

Hope is religion.

And addicts are God’s children.

Once you’re God, you don’t need no man —

especially not the one

who’s seen you put on the façade

of a dangerous demi-god,

long before loyalties were pledged,

long before religion was forged.

So the newly crowned immortal

denounced the man,

shredding the last bit of mortality,

meandering.

His people called it God’s divine plan.

Loyalties layered —

because in a capitalist world,

divinity is on sale,

and faith is convenience.

Conveniences corrupt faster

than cancerous cells.

Once you turn a blind eye to daylight —

because divinity in daylight

is like watching a magic trick from the rear —

your loyalties aren’t yours anymore.

It’s all but God’s will.

But, like all gods,

this one too was a sucker for riches —

gods fall for human temptations

harder than humans ever do —

and not one cries out loud,

because it’s a blind man’s world.

So, he left for a land

that promised more cash and kind,

leaving his temple behind,

entrusting disciples,

naming them high priests and priestesses

at the altar of Renaissance.

Loyalties — small price to pay

when power is on offer.

Leftover faith, left to holy men and women,

is like leftover meat for a pack of hyenas—

blink, and it’s gone.

Gods and demi-gods all dwindle —

and so did he —

hoping to trace his legacy

back to the origin story.

But by the time he set foot again

on the soil he sold as revolution,

faith had changed hands,

and religion birthed cults and factions.

And just like that,

a man-made god

stood at ruins of man-made rot —

appalled at rusts of Renaissance

sold at grocery prices,

called affordable resistance.

The god had fallen,

and so had his ego —

and nothing hurts a narcissist more.

When your back’s against the wall,

and your feet have lost their ground,

you do whatever it takes to be reborn —

cry out for help

to the man

who wrote your holy gospel.

But then again —

when have the blind cared

about the fine print?

As the god watched his ruins take shape,

as priests and priestesses sold him off

in bits and bones, fractions and flesh,

the man who wrote it all

lit a cigarette

from the ashes

of the burning gospel.

And if you are wondering

where I was in all of this —

to have known it all so well —

I was the man selling the cigarettes all along,

for nicotine sells better and kills easier than narcissism,

and death is the greatest capital of them all.