Metamorphosis and Realization

[Mungo man]

Priests and rabbis with synaptic disabilities;
they are suspended in thoughts unchanging.
They coast through life on the hearts and minds
of a devoted clergy.
They haunt our dreams and private prayers
with the ever looming consequence
of condemnation everlasting.

Yet when these tales, so depicted upon dreamscape clouds,
are dispelled by the ever guiding hand of our curious gods,
our desires to live life unbound by fear, we begin
to see just how little
we really know.

Must our first impulse and action be to scramble for the easy answers?
Perhaps first entertaining, pondering, and debating these proverbs
before
we submit ourselves to the whims of any spiritual conscription
could save us from
wasting our time.

What if we could look beyond the skeletons in parishioner's robes
that shuffle along the gothic hallways of our long and sleepless nights,
and see the corner they want to back you into? Your fear of death,
of letting the dead truly lie,
hem you in on every side.

Perhaps, if we can break out from these frightful personal prisons,
one can learn to sing songs of love, life, and the living
without relying on another's hand to guide them.
If only we sought the amiable path of self-acceptance
and coexistence
that leaves us free from self-loathing and
these surreal caricatures of eternity.

Those phantasmagorical scenes that adorn the winding corridors
that I walk on sleepless nights.
When I set off in total silence to gain audience with myself.
When did it begin to feel like I had to shout to be heard
in my own mind? For my thoughts were discordant at best
when fear was tending my thoughts.

It took me too many years to understand what my true self had always known,
because the lessons of priests and rabbis;
all of them pretenders to the throne;
warred for my attention.
I believe they died
the same way they lived.

Sleeping.

[L Oquence]

Priests and rabbis with synaptic disabilities;
they are suspended in thoughts unchanging.
They coast through life on the hearts and minds
of a devoted clergy.
They haunt our dreams and private prayers
with the ever looming consequence
of condemnation everlasting. I like this part mostly as is, personally I wouldn't have the break between hearts and minds and clergy though.

Yet when these tales, so depicted upon dreamscape clouds,
are dispelled by the ever guiding hand of our curious gods,
our desires to live life unbound by fear, we begin
to see just how little
we really know. I like the line break here a lot more, it makes me feel insignificant, in a good way, like I imagine myself saying this and just stopping before saying it. I also like the alliteration.

Must our first impulse and action be to scramble for the easy answers?
Perhaps first entertaining, pondering, and debating these proverbs
before
we submit ourselves to the whims of any spiritual conscription
could save us from
wasting our time.

I don't like the end line line break here and personally would take it out, I feel like the second line could be shortened, I'm at loss for a substitute though.

What if we could look beyond the skeletons in parishioner's robes
that shuffle along the gothic hallways of our long and sleepless nights,
and see the corner they want to back you into? Your fear of death,
of letting the dead truly lie,
hem you in on every side.

I like the use of rhyme in the end lines here, this passage feels a little choppy however, I'm appreciative of the sentiment


Perhaps, if we can break out from these frightful personal prisons,
one can learn to sing songs of love, life, and the living
without relying on another's hand to guide them.
If only we sought the amiable path of self-acceptance
and coexistence
that leaves us free from self-loathing and
these surreal caricatures of eternity.
once again would remove the line break. I like the alliteration again

Those phantasmagorical scenes that adorn the winding corridors
that I walk on sleepless nights.
When I set off in total silence to gain audience with myself.
When did it begin to feel like I had to shout to be heard
in my own mind? For my thoughts were discordant at best
when fear was tending my thoughts.

this is a good penultimate line, but I feel the word phatasmagorical doesn't really suit the rest of the poem, vocabulary wise.

It took me too many years to understand what my true self had always known,
because the lessons of priests and rabbis;
all of them pretenders to the throne;
warred for my attention.
I believe they died
the same way they lived.

Sleeping.

I like the use of line break the best here, your separation of the separate ideas really hit here. this part was the simplest yet most hard hitting

Overall I appreciate this poem, and you're train of thought. And I feel the word choice set the mood the best for me here. It felt natural. good job.

[Thoughtjotter]

Preach it Mungo Man, well said. It is hell running from hell all our lives led by the ones pushing the hell out of us with the fear of hell waiting on us when we get there. Or something like that, I think.
Anyway, The ending to this marvelous enlightenment summed it in the bull's eye.

My feedback, in the form of a question: Why do you (and I've seen it in other poems) split a whole sentence between lines? As in the last line of the last stanza,
"I believe they died
the same way they lived."
I Hope it's OK to learn by giving feedback.

[bena]

Before I do my crit, I think I'll answer Thoughtjotter---splitting whole sentences between lines is for the emphasis and slowing of the pace (especially in free verse, but not always.) If you only wrote in sentences per line you'd have a story, not a poem.


And to my crit:


Metamorphosis and Realization




Priests and rabbis with synaptic disabilities;
they are suspended in thoughts unchanging.
They coast through life on the hearts and minds
of a devoted clergy.
They haunt our dreams and private prayers
with the ever<-> looming consequence
of condemnation everlasting.

Yet when these tales, so depicted upon dreamscape clouds,
are dispelled by the ever<-> guiding hand of our curious gods,
our desires to live unbound by fear, we begin
to see just how little
we really know.

Must our first impulse and action be to scramble for the easy answers?
Perhaps first entertaining, pondering, and debating these proverbs
before
we submit ourselves to the whims of any spiritual conscription
could save us from
wasting our time.

What if we could look beyond the skeletons in parishioner's robes
that shuffle along the gothic hallways of our long and sleepless nights,
and see the corner they want to back you into? Your fear of death,
of letting the dead truly lie,
hem you in on every side.

Perhaps, if we can break out from these frightful personal prisons,
one can learn to sing songs of love, life, and the living
without relying on another's hand to guide them.
If only we sought the amiable path of self-acceptance
and coexistence
that leaves us free from self-loathing and
these surreal caricatures of eternity.

Those phantasmagorical scenes that adorn the winding corridors
that I walk on sleepless nights.
When I set off in total silence to gain audience with myself.
When did it begin to feel like I had to shout to be heard
in my own mind? For my thoughts were discordant at best
when fear was tending my thoughts.
It took me too many years to understand what my true self had always known,
because the lessons of priests and rabbis;
all of them pretenders to the throne;
warred for my attention.
I believe they died
the same way they lived.

Sleeping.


I really, really like this piece....but I feel as if a lot of the wordiness can be cut with a discerning eye. Like L Oquince said, the assonance/alliteration is fantastic.


bena/mel (whichever you want to call me)

[Gestalt222]

Priests and rabbis with synaptic disabilities;
they are suspended in thoughts unchanging.
They coast(coasting) through life on the hearts and minds
of a devoted clergy.
They haunt our dreams and private prayers
with the ever looming consequence
of condemnation everlasting.(everlasting condemnation)

Yet when these tales, so(omit) depicted upon dreamscape clouds,
are dispelled by the ever guiding hand(s) of our curious gods,
our desires to live life unbound by fear, we begin
to see just(omit) how little
we really know.

Must our first impulse and action be to scramble for the easy answers?
Perhaps first entertaining, pondering, and debating these proverbs
before
we submit ourselves to the whims of any spiritual conscription
could save us from
wasting our time.(omit latter 2 lines)

What if we could look beyond the skeletons in parishioner's robes
that shuffle along the gothic hallways of our long and sleepless nights,
and see the corner they want to back you into? Your fear of death,
of letting the dead truly lie,
hem(ming) you in on every side.

Perhaps, if we can break out from these frightful personal prisons,
one can learn to sing songs of love, life, and the living
without relying on another's hand to guide them.
If only we sought the amiable path of self-acceptance
and coexistence
that leaves us free from self-loathing and
these surreal caricatures of eternity.

Those phantasmagorical scenes that adorn the winding corridors
that I walk on sleepless nights.
When I set off in total silence to gain audience with myself.
When did it begin to feel like I had to shout to be heard
in my own mind? For my thoughts were discordant at best
when fear was tending my thoughts.

It took me too many years to understand what my true self had always known,
because the lessons of priests and rabbis;
all of them pretenders to the throne;
warred for my attention.
I believe they died
the same way they lived.

Sleeping.

My suggestions are mostly to shorten lines, make them read smoother. It's a great poem with a great message and great imagery, a subject I have often talked about with my atheist friend.