The art of humanity

 

Beneath the vaulted ceilings carved by mortal, striving hands,
Where sunlight paints the stone like gold in hallowed lands,
I wander through the splendour built by sweat and human skill,
Yet every arch and echo is bent to celestial will.

So many painted wonders bend their colours to one name,  
Exalting virgin motherhood in every gilded frame.  
The canvases are masterpieces, yet hollow at their heart,  
Art done a hundred times before becomes no longer art.

The tender scenes of Mary with her child so newly born  
Have worn a groove in art so deep it leaves the rest forlorn.  
Imagine what we might have learned to paint, to carve, to see  
If beauty were not shackled to what priests said it should be.

They say the sorrowed heart finds balm in heaven’s soft embrace,
That death is but a doorway to a brighter, sacred place.
But grief is made more noble when it stands alone and bare,
Not softened by illusions or a whispered, skyward prayer.

A poem sings of courage in the face of steel and flame,
Yet spoils its honest triumph with a deity’s acclaim.
As though the strength of mortals needs a god to make it whole,
As though the fire of virtue must be lit by some control.

Before the gods had titles, before temples scarred the earth,
The virtues walked unshackled with independent worth.
No heaven promised glory, no hellfire threatened blame
And heroism flourished before our gods had names.

I love the tales that shaped us, all the legends we revere,
But hate the creeping dogma that rewrites what we hold dear.
They say a hero’s greatness comes from trust in the divine,  
As though no mortal courage ever stiffened human spine.

If every noble impulse comes from some divine command,  
Then none of us have reason to be proud of where we stand.  
It robs us of our agency, denies us moral voice,  
And leaves no inspiration in a life without free choice.

I want the tales of wisdom free from piety’s disguise,
Of sacrifice made meaningful without eternal prize.
Of goodness born from conscience, not from fear of fiery ends
Of humans choosing virtue for the sake of all their friends.

The melodies that move me as in the air they rise
Are shackled to the glory of a tyrant in the skies.
Some music reaches inward, speaking straight into the soul,  
But every line proclaims that love or God must be the goal.  
How small a world they conjure with two insipid themes,  
When sound itself could open up the vastness of our dreams.

Our towering cathedrals, every spire of carved stone,  
Are relics of dominion of a cruel and vacant throne,
The arches rimmed to trigger awe in finest tracery,
But the joy is dimmed by our creed’s deluded legacy
Their splendour shows the heights to which our mortal hands can climb,  
If not for myths that bind our sight and squander human time.

So let us praise the artists, not the phantoms that they were told
Deserved all the credit, worship, and the offerings of gold.
For all our greatest wonders: every palace, spire, and dome,
Are proof of human brilliance, not the gods who stole those homes.

Give them enough rope to hang themselves

 

In a world where each word is a step on thin ice,
Where a stumble can cost you an unrecoverable price,
Where a phrase out of place is a sacred offence,
And the mob lights the torches without recompense,
We speak with a tremor, we measure each breath,
For a sentence misshapen is social death.

Some say this is justice: be careful, be kind,  
If your freedom brings harm, then restrain your own mind.
If fear is the tether that keeps cruelty at bay,
Then let fear be the leash that will force you to stay.
Yet others cry “lynching!” when judgment is swift,
When a slip of the tongue is a terminal rift.

The truth is them both, uneasy, unstill:
Most of us speak without malice or skill.
We fumble with language, we reach for a thought,
But the meaning we grasp is not always that sought.
A moment of anger, a joke poorly cast:
Should one careless instant outweigh all the past?

For some, speech is play, just a game of the mind,
A trollish excursion, all care left behind.
For others, it’s fluid, emotions in flight,
A snapshot of feeling, not lasting insight.
Yet listeners scour for shadows and signs,
For hints of the hatred that lurks between lines.

One wrong note, and the verdict is swift:
The world realigns, resentments uplift.
“You echo the wicked, you mirror their call,
So you must be one of them, guilty of all.”
But a clue is not proof, and a hint is not fate;
One moment alone cannot tell what you state.

Precision is hard: ask the lawyers who write
Hundreds of pages to guard every right.
Words twist and they tangle, you try to speak true,
But a djinn will grant you your wish all askew.
If we treat every sentence as hostile terrain,
We turn interactions to struggle and strain.

Demand certainty in all that we say
And make dialogue brittle, drive friends away.
Pre-judgment is poison; suspicion is fire;
It burns through goodwill and it fuels the ire
Of those who feel hunted, who flee to the side
Where spite masquerades as wounded pride.

My mother would murmur, mind sharp as a fang
“Give fools the rope and themselves they will hang”.
So trust in the process, let conversation unfold;
A bigot will show you the truth when they’re bold.
But harming the harmless to prove you are pure
Is a cruelty righteous folk shouldn’t endure.

So loosen the noose that you tie with your fear;
Let doubt have its space, let intent become clear.
For someone who falters but never reveals
A heart full of hatred is not who you feel.
For lashing at shadows for crimes never real
Turns justice to theatre and virtue to zeal.

Spending goodwill

 

They called him “good,” though horrors hid beneath his gentle air;  
A smiling mask that cloaked crimes no conscience ought to bear.  
For monsters rarely snarl at first, nor show their teeth outright;  
They win your trust with warmth and wit before they strike at night.

Pelicot’s wife reports his charm, the humour that he showed;  
Yet it made the mask ‘neath which darker desires flowed.  
And Epstein too could dazzle rooms with wit both sharp and sly;  
Proof that the liveliest voices are the ones that most can lie.

We praise all those whose laughter flows, whose presence fills the room;  
Yet never ask what shadows trail their soporific bloom.  
The quiet souls, the awkward ones, are judged as strange or cold;  
While glittering tongues turn hot air into moral gold.

The world mistakes a friendly grin for proof of moral grace;  
But kindness is not measured by the look of someone’s face.  
The shy must walk a razor’s edge where every step is weighed;  
One slip, and they are cast aside, condemned, dismissed, betrayed.

For charm obtains what truth would not, and blinds the careless eye;  
It smooths the doubts that ought to rise, and lets deception fly.  
We trust the ones who make us glow, who soothe us with their tone;  
Yet goodness shows in how one acts if all the charm is gone.

The politician’s practiced smile, the salesman’s honeyed line—  
We fall for warmth, and never see the rot beneath the shine.  
If instinct bowed to principle, if thought replaced desire,  
We’d judge by deeds, not pleasant words that set our hearts on fire.

So look beyond the instant glow that makes a stranger seem  
A friend, a hope, a guiding light, a hero in a dream.  
Let charm be not the measure of the worth we think we see;  
For only deeds, not pleasantries, define morality.