The Mark of Abel
He smiles at me, and his bloody hands wave
So I’ll notice what I’ve come to assume:
His cruel crucible grows horrid and loud
As it gorges on corpses, gorgeous and proud,
And beams clarity into the gloom.
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave.
The other creatures who wander around
This bewildering land of conflict and woe
Only seek what we seek, only know what we know,
That the way home might never be found.
The embers of eternity are a peripheral glimmer;
It was in their eyes as they each bled to death.
My brother, sweet fool, dances and grins;
It’s all a game to him, and one that he wins.
I turn and draw up a deep breath.
I blow over my pile, but it only grows dimmer.
Unaltered altar; I feed it the best of my crop:
These plants that I tended for almost a year
Didn’t fight as I took them, nor wail with fear.
Their leaves only singe, hiss and pop.
And somewhere above, in the mysterious blue,
The father and fabric of reality breathes;
Inhaling the fresh fleshy flames leaping high,
Judging my steam-spitting leaves that fry
On a grass bed that sputters and seethes.
The same spirit that surges the living air through
The fire that tears through the blackening creatures
Only wafts, unimpressed, unpossessed, at mine.
Steam stings my eyes; it’s a clear enough sign
That outlines our arbiter’s features.
Yell it loudly: the flash of the knife has been deemed
Worthier than the pull of the rake.
Tell it proudly: the swift impulse, the cruel
Blade is the heir, not the fair, careful tool
That morning by morning I take.
Find redemption, now? How? How is it dreamed
That this realm that rewards swords, not ploughshares,
May lead us to grace? Blood on the earth
Not seeds in the soil will measure our worth,
While we sing of goodness unawares.
Let an able world dispose of its cane.
Rise, now, and walk with no limp of shame
For shameful deeds! Hunt down this path
Away from Eden, dizzy with wrath,
And chase after innocent game!
“Still no luck?” I hear that tired refrain,
My brother skips over, brawny and bold
And perfect for this world. “Why don’t you come
Hunting tonight?” The thought strikes me dumb.
He hands me his blade like it’s gold.
Am I my father’s reaper? Was virtue pretending
To the throne where expedience lounges and brays?
Come hunting tonight, hunt for the soul
Of the devil who revels in vainglory’s hole.
Find it where the blackened hart lays.
“You’ll want to sharpen that,” he adds, bending
To lift me a stone with his gory hands;
Hardly finished one slaughter, already dreaming
Of more to come. The new world’s beaming
Firstborn, oh, he understands.
It uncoils, it uncoils, it uncoils, unending:
A nightmarish snake leads the trail we plod.
l tremble. I stare into his eyes,
The ember of eternity flickers and dies.
I lift my stone, and put faith in my god.
So I’ll notice what I’ve come to assume:
His cruel crucible grows horrid and loud
As it gorges on corpses, gorgeous and proud,
And beams clarity into the gloom.
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave.
The other creatures who wander around
This bewildering land of conflict and woe
Only seek what we seek, only know what we know,
That the way home might never be found.
The embers of eternity are a peripheral glimmer;
It was in their eyes as they each bled to death.
My brother, sweet fool, dances and grins;
It’s all a game to him, and one that he wins.
I turn and draw up a deep breath.
I blow over my pile, but it only grows dimmer.
Unaltered altar; I feed it the best of my crop:
These plants that I tended for almost a year
Didn’t fight as I took them, nor wail with fear.
Their leaves only singe, hiss and pop.
And somewhere above, in the mysterious blue,
The father and fabric of reality breathes;
Inhaling the fresh fleshy flames leaping high,
Judging my steam-spitting leaves that fry
On a grass bed that sputters and seethes.
The same spirit that surges the living air through
The fire that tears through the blackening creatures
Only wafts, unimpressed, unpossessed, at mine.
Steam stings my eyes; it’s a clear enough sign
That outlines our arbiter’s features.
Yell it loudly: the flash of the knife has been deemed
Worthier than the pull of the rake.
Tell it proudly: the swift impulse, the cruel
Blade is the heir, not the fair, careful tool
That morning by morning I take.
Find redemption, now? How? How is it dreamed
That this realm that rewards swords, not ploughshares,
May lead us to grace? Blood on the earth
Not seeds in the soil will measure our worth,
While we sing of goodness unawares.
Let an able world dispose of its cane.
Rise, now, and walk with no limp of shame
For shameful deeds! Hunt down this path
Away from Eden, dizzy with wrath,
And chase after innocent game!
“Still no luck?” I hear that tired refrain,
My brother skips over, brawny and bold
And perfect for this world. “Why don’t you come
Hunting tonight?” The thought strikes me dumb.
He hands me his blade like it’s gold.
Am I my father’s reaper? Was virtue pretending
To the throne where expedience lounges and brays?
Come hunting tonight, hunt for the soul
Of the devil who revels in vainglory’s hole.
Find it where the blackened hart lays.
“You’ll want to sharpen that,” he adds, bending
To lift me a stone with his gory hands;
Hardly finished one slaughter, already dreaming
Of more to come. The new world’s beaming
Firstborn, oh, he understands.
It uncoils, it uncoils, it uncoils, unending:
A nightmarish snake leads the trail we plod.
l tremble. I stare into his eyes,
The ember of eternity flickers and dies.
I lift my stone, and put faith in my god.