Pride of the Templar’s Prayer-

“I will assert my dominance over your foolish eastern Idols-
I’ll shall bury your gods in the ashes of their goddess wives,

I will summon
all four winds
to cover them
in the ruins abounding,

I will call hell, hail, and tempest- Plague shall be my rear guard,
Pestilence and piety the twin blades!

I will shatter each pot, rend any veil, dismiss and purge all dross of iniquities!

I shall curtail the worship of Nothing, so boldly shall we win,
that my defiance shall be
a worship in its own light-

I shall never submit
to blessed unholy fires,
And I shall forsake all these last pagan festivals-

Your dances and your sacrifices I shall not receive,
Your new Moon Festivals, they weary me,

Your incense and bells
Molochs sweet breath of defiance-
Isis, Ishtar, Athena, Baal-
All of them now
Do crumble and fall!

And each of
the young pretty statues,
golden seals, and ivory gates,
and all the tiny altars,

Will bleed out
their last

So the Templar’s
prayer ceased,
and the night
was cold and empty…

His quest was won,
the darkness fled,
and in that hour
the sunlight shed-

No god nor goddess alive did show,
Nor God sent Hell, nor Hail, and tempests none-
there was but in that night
the holy dawn…

The temple was bare
and in ruins-
the dancers and songs
all had fled,

But the last Idol
that stood tall
in the Temple-

the Self.

J.D. Hughes

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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