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 fellow 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.