MISSIONS YOU [CHAPTER 1]

A/S: I pause the Bureau of Life series to answer a burning call that you should pay attention to.

There was a certainty in Maja’s consciousness that he was going at a skin-splitting speed of 135km/h… on his feet and in a field of waist-high grasses - 15 notches faster than your average cheetah. Maja could hear the ASIM-crested chopper drum and chop a few hundred meters behind him. He could feel the blood bursting through his carotid, yet an unknown peace welcomed his racing heart.

Scanty elephant grass blades tore at his faded camos as his rocketing feet took him beyond the fields into the bamboo forest. Sprigs snapped at his bruised face even as the rat-a-tat of a machine gun he couldn’t recognize echoed the thumps in his head.

***

Maja Kasero arrived at the Pathalaia bus station thirteen hours ago with Mensah Afram, his assistant, expecting to be picked up by Bibek. Bibek was a believer from Mechi, who had been transferred by the Bank he worked with to a branch in Pathalaia. Bibek had informed Maja that Pathalaia needed the gospel more than air itself and he had invited Maja to come start a fellowship there.

Maja and Mensah had just arrived from Pakari, a commercial hub in the Biratnagar province of Nepal. They had spent four months building an underground fellowship of believers at Pakari; the eighteenth fellowship that they had founded in the country with 1.4% Christian citizenry. The Mechi fellowship was one of those eighteen.

Maja and Mensah were met by a bristly young man who identified himself as Bishal. He claimed to be Bibek’s driver and assured them that Bibek was in a meeting with the regional heads of his bank. Maja, being who he was, tried to reach Bibek and got his voicemail twice. Maja was very careful about his actions in Nepal because being a missionary in this country was a delicate specie of difficulty. And being on the Anti-Asian Missions (ASIM) group’s wanted-list was a whole new class of adversity that only Paul the Apostle would understand.

Maja scoured his spirit to discern Bishal’s persona but only found peace there, so he and Mensah joined Bishal in confidence that they were in safe hands. Twenty minutes later, they dozed off in a black sedan with Kathmandu license plates, weaving through the usual Pathalaia evening traffic.

And thirty-five minutes later, Maja stirred to the grunts of a rowdy bunch. He opened his eyes to see that they were in an open space crawling with coarse-looking militants in black camos, flaunting every imaginable form of armament.

There was no cerebral doubt in Maja that this was an ASIM camp even though his heart hoped against hope that his brain was wrong.  His first reaction was to fret, but fellowship with the spirit in his twenty-four years of mission work had taught him that no situation deserved angst. Two things were involved; either God showed up and he continued his mission or he died and went to heaven – in which case he gained more.

So he looked around. He was still in the car, Mensah was still snoring beside him but Bishal was not in the driver’s seat. Strange. Not Bishal’s disappearance but why Elion’s Spirit didn’t warn Maja that Bishal was not who he claimed to be – that rarely happened. If Maja wasn’t warned, then there had to be a reason why Elion’s Spirit had allowed them get to wherever this was. He stretched to wake Mensah but thought against it. He needed to formulate a plan before rousing the young man to this.

“Run,” Elion’s Spirit said out of nowhere.

Maja paused, looked around the space and saw that it was helmed in by shacks made solely of corrugated roofing sheets. Where was he going to run to? How fast could he go to escape these restless militants? Where was he? Questions numbering the molecules of water flooded his thoughts but he caught himself before anxiety found a footing.

Another lesson picked up in the mission field was this, whatever Elion’s Spirit said to do was doable if logic was minimized and instructions followed. So he turned to wake Mensah--

“Do not wake him,” Elion’s Spirit said again and that made Maja wonder who was really speaking.

“You can’t ask me to run and leave Mensah here,” Maja quizzed, struggling not to imagine the anguish that awaited Mensah in the hands of these brutes.

“I just did,” Elion’s Spirit replied.

Maja checked the door locks, saw that the car was open and refused further negotiations with logic. He opened the door and shot out with speed he didn’t know his limbs possessed. To his amazement, there was no exit out of the open space. So how did the sedan get in here? Then he gleaned the thumps of an approaching chopper, looked back and saw the cables rigged to the sedan and knew exactly how.

An uproar broke up behind him as the militants cheered. This was sport for them because they knew there was no way out of here. A door adjacent to Maja’s right opened and a burly Arab stepped out with bare torso; he resembled a statue of bricks. He glared at Maja, who was still running in circles.

“Run towards him,” Elion’s Spirit said and Maja obeyed.

When Maja was five feet away from the door, the statue of bricks swung an arm with the heft of a mallet at Maja. Maja didn’t stop, didn’t dodge, didn’t swerve, he just kept running. The blow missed and his speed threw the Arab off balance.

Maja leaped over the falling hunk in stride and entered the door which opened into a lounge that was in stark contrast to the carnage outside; polished wood and glass fittings. His feet carried him too fast to absorb this splendour enclosed in squalor. He can’t remember how many doors he ran through or how many militants he saw in what seemed to be an endless maze of elegant rooms but he eventually arrived at a window without bars.

“Jump through it,” Elion’s Spirit muttered again. And Maja thought twice before obeying. The window was lined with glass louvers. He had only witnessed such madness in the action movies he watched as a kid.

“Can it get more blockbuster than this?” Elion’s Spirit added with a chuckle and Maja smiled. Elion’s Spirit found the oddest moments to poke harmless humour. The humour numbed Maja’s anxiety and he ran head-on into the window and fell… for what seemed like fifteen seconds.

When he landed, his whole body received tiny and enormous jolts of pain in many parts. There were so many hurting spots that the pain signals seemed confused. Glass shards rained on him as he attempted a Jackie Chan quick-get-up but the earth he lay on denied him the privilege to experiment. He slipped and rolled downhill.

Teak twigs slapped his face, trunks played ping pong with his torso, and the wet forest floor painted him the colour of the sub-tropical evergreen forest. Then he lost consciousness.

To be continued...

Image Credit: Jean-Léon Gérôme - The Christian Martyrs' Last Prayer, Courtesy wikipedia.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART IX]

Continued...

Mosun’s disgust for the figure seated in front of her had no comparison. Tiamiyu Aregbe, was a saint to the public and poison to the church. On her husband’s death bed, Gbenga had divulged all the clandestine activities of some of the executive members of the organization instituted to ensure that worship ascends to Zion as at when due.

Tiamiyu, looked unusually distraught as against the cocky bigot she was accustomed to.

“Why am I here, sir?” She asked him

“There’s no need for the animosity Mosun,” Tiamiyu responded. His attempts at a calm veneer were crumbling from obtrusive thrusts of the memory of his last meeting. That young man knew things that even his wife didn’t know and his wife knew everything about him; well, everything he wanted her to know.

“Let’s not make this another long session,” Mosun’s spite was fast flooding the room. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” Tiamiyu smiled sheepishly. “I want us to organize, a memorial for Gbenga. It’s been two years since he left us, and we just want to celebrate the great worship--"

“End this hypocrisy right now!” Mosun yelled. “And don’t you ever bring up my late husband in any conversation.”

“Mosun, why are you so bitter?”

“The nerves to ask me that,” Mosun spat. “Gbenga was focused on ministry until you elected him into this sham. And then his focus switched from serving Elion to fame and personal gain. Look where that landed him.”

“The decision that he took, gave this organization the clout it needed.” Tiamiyu’s composure returned. “He is the reason why we are where we are today and I want us to celebrate that--"

“--you are insane.” Mosun rose. “And if you go ahead with this your memorial service, be sure to read about your gang in the papers.”

“Are you willing to soil your late husband’s reputation?”

“Does his reputation on earth matter anymore?” Mosun walked over to the door. “You should worry about yours.”

***

Huntoel sniffed the scent that wafted through the walls of the duplex. His claymore was sheathed but his hand was on the hilt in case they encountered any emissary from Hades.

“What’s that smell?” Sanctiel asked from behind him. They were concealed within the walls of the fence and observed the building for any signs of movement.

“If you say one more word out of turn,” Huntoel hissed, “you will be reassigned. That smell is the waking-rosanderine. An angel two classes above you is within sniffing range. Now, silence.”

Sanctiel chewed the next question he had to ask. This trip has been the most educational, yet most constrained he’d ever made to earth. Huntoel was a cool guy, but he was too quiet, except he needed to show Sanctiel a new trick or teach him. Sanctiel wanted to learn, but he also wanted to hear stories about Huntoel’s feats.

A blaze of light sliced the dim living room and Huntoel nodded at him. He pointed to the skies and signalled a descent. Sanctiel understood the wordless instructions. He tore off in octane speed towards the clear skies and descended even as Huntoel glided, without as much as a whisper, towards the living room.

***

Demiel heard the descending zing and looked up to see a class-one-light tearing towards him. The lattices of the first floor and the roofing did nothing to conceal the blaze. He quickly tucked the glory vial into the sling satchel that hung across his chest. He unclasped his spinning bayonet in case this resulted in a clash of weapons.

Before the bayonet’s weight dropped his arm, a clumsy-stomp spun around his torso and tossed him to the ground – a clumsy-stomp was short series of knotted lassos wielded only by unclassified angels. Demiel knew misfortune had visited him on duty. His hands and feet were bound by the stomp. He tried to turn over to his back but he felt the tip of a claymore hold him down. He couldn’t hear the zing anymore and could not smell the scents of the angel’s that had captured him at first.

Then he smelt it – the Chayil worn by only the unclassified. This meant he could only hold back any information he had at the risk of losing his voice. Elion had set rules in Zion and cadres among angels. The unclassified could not be disobeyed. He couldn’t see his captors but the scent was unmistakable.

“Who sent you here?” Huntoel affected his voice to a deeper tone.

“Yazael of the 9^th battalion, under Jahaziel commander of the legion battling Balrog’s in quadrant 1.” Demiel couldn’t make out the voice but he was compelled to obey the scent.

“Does Jahaziel know you are here?” Huntoel asked. Sanctiel kept mute in all of these and even Huntoel was surprised.

“I doubt that, sir.” Demiel responded. “I simply obeyed the instructions of my commanding officer.”

“What did you come to get?” Huntoel noticed the bulge in Demiel’s satchel.

“To collect the vial of glory in my satchel,” Demiel answered.

“To what end?”

Then Demiel divulged all he knew about Luciel’s plans.

“Tell no one of this occasion.” Huntoel said when Demiel finished his account. He cloaked himself and Sanctiel, then removed the clumsy-stomps.

Demiel rose, looked around and saw no one to his astonishment. The scent was gone too. Holy dread overwhelmed him as he searched around frantically. He was bound by Huntoel’s instructions and he was bound to obey his commanding officer. This was the first time he had found himself in a morass – obeying command and upholding what he discerned was Elion’s truth.

He knew what Yazael and Luciel were planning was not in line with Elion’s precept, but he could not gain audience before Elion unless summoned and he could not disobey his commanding officer. After arranging Mosun’s living room to erase every sign of disturbance, he sliced the dimness with his fluttering glory and was gone.

Sanctiel made to throw off the cloak but Huntoel restrained him.

“Don’t be so trusting.” Huntoel said as he spun the ring on his wrist. The translucent slid out and he dialled Mackel.

“What’s he up to?” Mackel asked immediately he showed up on the screen. There was no time for banters.

To be Continued...

Image credit: courtesy pqhobbit.wordpress.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART VIII]

Continued...

Elion, via the Bureau of Life, had assigned Luciel to initiate the halal campaign, so that spiritual licence could be availed for that apostolic move but Luciel had usurped the privilege. 

The halal campaign was simple – get pockets of worshippers across the federation to offer up chants of praises to Elion. This praises translated to glory which was stored in Yek’hadar department in the Bureau of Life. This glory would then be metamorphosed into power at the Hapha department and sent back to the Nigeria for the apostolic revival.

Prayer would have been easier to translate, but since the fall of Ad’ahm in the garden, very few humans could pray sincerely without poisoning the prayers with doubt. And poison had no storage in Zion. The only time the greater percentage of humanity reached out to Zion in “unpoisoned”, unadulterated, and sincere yearning was when it "worshiped" or praised.

Luciif had gotten wind of the plan and had sent battalions to disrupt the peace in the nation, stir up chaos and enthrone a despicable president who will sell the soul of the nation to evil, such that rancour and bitterness would reign. Once bitterness had the better hand, praise would be impossible. Balrog, Luciff’s Archangel, was making a brilliant affair out of defeating the angels of light.

Yazael, having witnessed the onslaught that Hades was serving the brazen ones of Zion, had contacted Luciel, the department boss for Barakh’alal, and sought help; the angels fighting in Quadrant 1 needed power. Luciel explained to him that to garner power, they needed to stir up praise, but not to Elion. Elion would distribute the glory that arrived at Yek’hadar evenly within the Bureau of War. He convinced Yazael that if he needed to rise quickly in the ranks and decimate the hordes in the section allotted to him, they had to usurp glory.

They were here to secure grounds for the worship service ensuing in twenty-three earth minutes. The church’s worship leader was on Luciel’s talent-roll.

Yazael convinced several members of his battalion to go along with the plan. Unknown to them, everything worked together for Elion’s purpose.

Yazael sped across the expanse between the two buildings, and arrived on the office complex with Messuel trailing the blaze of glory that followed him. They scanned the whole roof but saw nothing.

“There’s no one here boss,” Messuel spoke.

“I smell lilies-in-the-morning,” Yazael replied.

Under the cloak, Huntoel glared at Sanctiel in exasperation. Even after he had warned Sanctiel not to use his scent, the naïve angel had carried his elixir bottle on a reconnaissance. Mackel would yet have given Huntoel the most difficult mission in his entire carrier. Not the mission of investigating Luciel, but training the nepios on the job.

Sanctiel apologized as best he could without moving or uttering a word.

“Could be one of these humans, exploring the spiritual.” Messuel tried to reason with Yazael

“This is from Zion.” Yazael muttered, gliding across the expanse of the roof. 

“Have you heard about the cloak before?”

“I have never seen one.” Messuel replied.

Under the cloak, Sanctiel’s eyes popped as Yazael hovered over his stomach.

Yazael dipped his hands into the tip of his scimitar sheath and retrieved a gust of powder.

Huntoel realized it was the sneezing elixir used to hunt hidden scums from Hades and quickly covered Sanctiel’s nose. Seasoned angels had been trained to withstand the sting.

Yazael sprayed the elixir and Messuel sneezed uncontrollably. Yazael sprayed it again but only Messuel sneezed. Yazael dusted his hands on his glowing wings and turned to blaze off.  

“Be on the lookout from now on.” He said to Messuel who was still sneezing.  “And confirm that Demiel has retrieved the vial from Mosun’s apartment.”

To be continued

Image Credit: Courtesy - flickr.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART VII]

Continued...

“I already told you Elion sent me and I don’t want your money even though I need it bad.” Benjay rummaged the sling bag at the foot of the bronze-sprayed chair under him. He produced a sheet of paper and scribbled on it. He pushed the paper to Tiamiyu. “When you are ready to listen to what Elion wants you to do, call that number.”

He rose, picked up the sling bag, and walked towards the door. Tiamiyu stared at the paper in front of him. 080-ELBENJAY was written on it.

***

Benjay shut the door behind him and hurried to the main entrance of the MGAAN office complex. He never understood why churches and church-related organizations built such mega-complexes yet impoverished Christians numerically dominated the select rich. He had nothing against churches; he just found it ironic that structure and packaging took precedence over the well-being of souls that these structures were erected to attract.

The door he’d just shut opened in tandem with the main entrance and a lady dressed in denims & a t-shirt entered the lobby. Benjay stopped in midstride. He could recognize the lady but had no idea where he’d seen her before.

He looked back and saw Tiamiyu, standing by his office door, and staring at the lady too. Benjay turned back to the lady and it suddenly hit him. She was one of the faces he saw in his sojourn into the ethereal.

“Mosun Akinola.” The Voice said.

“Do I approach her now?” Benjay asked but The Voice didn’t reply. Benjay took a quick decision and walked over to Mosun, who was conversing with the blonde receptionist. Why can’t Nigerians just stop the pretense? A blonde Nigerian? Benjay thought.

“I need to talk to you ma,” Benjay muttered to Mosun, but she sidestepped him and headed for Tiamiyu’s office. The disgust on her face told Benjay all he needed to know about her; this lady was rude.

***

Silence. Weighty physical silence. Silence enough to allow the spiritual noise in the church yard some vocal room in the physical. Huntoel observed the team of five angels from the Bureau of War advantageously positioned on the roof of New Estate Baptist, Yaba.

“What are they doing here?” Sanctiel broke the silence.

“Silence.” Huntoel hissed without turning to look at Sanctiel. In all his years of service, he had never been paired with a complete nepios – angels in nappies. He preferred executing missions alone, but if the occasion demanded a partnership, he always had battalions of seasoned executors to choose from. But like Amaziel had pled, if Mackel said to take Sanctiel, his reasons were sturdy.

Rapha dept. had furnished them with cloaks and claymores. Even though this was meant to be an investigative mission, Huntoel had opined that something could go wrong and they might have to fight their way through some skirmishes. Sanctiel hadn’t wielded a sword, more so a claymore since he left the academy eight Zion months ago. He had never even seen a cloak before, so his excitement was insanely skewed to the scary when he received it and learnt its capacities. Also, his enthusiasm beat new-year fireworks when he learnt he was going on a mission with Huntoel – the most decorated executor in the Bureau.

“Sir, once again it is my greatest honour to serve alongside--" Sanctiel reeled off in excitement, forgetting the last order Huntoel had just issued.

“Silence.” Huntoel hissed again and ducked. He pushed Sanctiel’s head beneath the rise of the roof adjacent to the huge church. Yazael, the leader of the five-angel team, spun in their direction.

***

Yazael scanned the building adjacent to theirs and sniffed the descending zephyr.

“We have company.” He said, drawing his sabre-tooth scimitar.

“Light or darkness?” Messuel, Yazael’s second in command, asked. But Yazael uttered not a word.

The team of five had defected from the ongoing onslaught in Sections 61-65 of Quadrant 1 – Yobe, Maiduguri, Baga, Biu and Gwoza. Balrog’s battalion was doing a damn fine job of upsetting the scales of justice in code 234 and the apostolic wave that Elion wanted to drown Africa in had been stalled. Nigeria was pivotal to the success of this last move of Elion on planet earth before the great Armageddon.

To be Continued...

Photo Credit: Courtesy animal-kid.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART VI]

Continued...

Everything in Mackel’s office was suspended in mid-air yet they didn’t float about because they were held in position by his state of mind. All bureau heads wielded so much power that structures around them responded to their emotions. Amaziel and Huntoel had never seen Mackel this way before, items were always grounded around him because he had learnt to control his pride and ego via service.

“I need you to monitor Luciel’s movements in code 234 and report to me directly,” Mackel said. He was making an effort to be calm. “I want you to follow protocol, stay within edicts and be as invisible as possible.” 

“May I speak out of turn sir?” Huntoel asked with his head bowed. Since the day he discovered Mackel’s true position, he had never dared look the angel in the eyes. It took so much control to wield so much power and still choose to open doors for the lowest ranks.

“As long as you are within reason.”

“This is a matter for the Bureau of War, why don’t we contact them?” Huntoel asked.

The suspended items in the room, floated about in mild frenzy. Amaziel glared at Huntoel, who simply shrugged in defiance. The floating items stopped their mild agitation.

“And tell them what? I was sitting on a mutiny for how many years and couldn’t smell it?” Mackel retorted. “Our mess is ours to clean.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.” Huntoel turned to leave.

“Amaziel will vouch for everything you need from Rapha department.” He shut his eyes as the suspended items began their descent. “And oh, Sanctiel will understudy you.”

Huntoel froze. “The radical?”

“He is loyal,” Mackel muttered with his eyes closed.

“His impulsiveness will foul up this mission sir.” Huntoel argued.

“He is loyal.”

“Sir--“

“Huntoel, loyalty is always willing to learn and loyalty eventually wins.”

***

Tiamiyu Aregbe listened to the tout seated in front of him in mock attention. It is not every day the seating president of the Ministering Gospel Artistes’ Association of Nigeria (MGAAN) met a tout claiming he had heard from Elion. These boys were getting bolder by the day. Internet scams were buying more jail terms than cars, so they had turned to the lucrative, full-proof venture that has fed millions of false-prophets all over the world, all through the ages.

“So, what exactly did Elion say?” Tiamiyu asked again

“Sir,” Benjay answered irritably, “you can either believe me or kick me out of your office, there are hundreds of names I have to talk--"

“--that’s not the way to get to him.” The Voice whispered to Benjay.

“I’ll make this easy for you,” Tiamiyu said, “I can make do with someone with your talent… and boldness. Let’s say, I clean you up--"

“I don’t need cleaning up.” Benjay barked. “You think I want to be here? I don’t give a rat’s butt what happens to you or your family or your association, I am not even a Christian.”

“Easy… easy young man.” Tiamiyu raised his hand as he looked round the room for anything that he could use to defend himself, in case this wild animal forgot where he was. His eyes settled on the miniature pharaoh sculpture that housed his assortment of pens. That would do just fine. Every other thing in his office was very sensitive. Tiamiyu’s office was a testament of world tours and a wealth-driven ministry. The wooden furniture was bronze-sprayed and the leather attendants were lined with golden studs. Rows and rows of books lined the office walls save for the seating area.

“Screaming isn’t going to get to him.” The Voice soothed Benjay’s angst. “Ask him about--"

“How about the stash of cocaine concealed in your fancy pen holder,” Benjay looked around the office. “The stash in that Dake’s bible, or the one in --"

“--Stop." A Frightened Tiamiyu rose from his seat. “Who are you working with, how much do you want?”

To be Continued...

Image Credit: Courtesy manmeetgoat.com

BUREAU OF LIFE [PART V]

...continued

For five days and five nights Benjay had swum in innumerable quagmires of hallucinations, nerve-splitting dreams and brain-banging visions. On his several trips to the ethereal reality, that was soon to become his existence, he had witnessed his body divorced from his soul. While his body writhed in eye-bulging spasms and gold-melting fevers, his soul was wreathed with streams of imagery that he couldn’t make any sense of.

The imagery was attendant to a voice with the audacity of crashing waves in a typhoon. The voice recited every bible verse Benjay had ever seen, heard and read. The weight of the voice still drummed in Benjay’s thrashed consciousness, rendering his heart palpitations rhythmless. Benjay could not finger any memory responsible for how he got home five nights ago and could not discern any taste that could testify to his consumption of any meal within that period.

Yet he felt alive. Alive with so much essence that he was scared the overdose would end his existence. In his sojourn into the inexplicable realm, he had seen faces. Faces he recognized but was confident he had never met in person. They were mostly attention-seeking, shallow-minded folks he’d seen on TV - celebrities.  Those fools he hated for wasting their talents. They had the opportunity to quake a cataclysmic change across the nation, yet spun the teeming toddlers of their audience to the advantages of their already green accounts.

Only few said the truth. Like Fela and Lagbaja. That’s why he had invested long nights in creating his afrobeat and afrohop mixtapes. He was going to be the next voice of his generation. His dread-locked brand look would be pegged on a reggae artiste any day and he loved the confusion everyone wore whenever he clarified that he was no Rastafari.

While he hustled Gbagada and Ilupeju bus-stops as a tout by day, he spent most nights recording hits and mastering his art. He had over twenty recorded songs, but none had been released because he felt he wasn’t ready yet; strange for a bristly twenty-nine-year-old with ambitions of international impact.

Benjay’s eyes fluttered open and the fog of confusion dispersed for a wee bit. He became aware that he was lying prostrate and that his entire body felt drenched. The dingy foam was soaked through vertically and horizontally. He pushed his dead-weight up as he rose and water gathered around his hands. Had his room flooded again? Lagos floods were no respecter of the high or low.

He looked at the room floor and dispelled that thought. There were dry sheaves of paper on the ground with his writing on them. He looked closely at the sheet closest to him and saw Lathan Luciano, 4-time NGMA winner, raised in Aba-Ngwa, sexually abused at 12, started ministry at 15 when his dad died from consumption of petrol, sold everything he had to record his first album, lives on 11 Glover road, Ikoyi, Phone number…

Benjay’s palpitating heart ceased in freight, when he looked at the next sheet. Statistics about another person he had never heard of - then the next sheet and the next one. All the sheets scattered about the floor had data about people. Then he saw a blank sheet with a bic pen on it.

“Pick it up and write,” the same audacious voice broke into Benjay’s dread.

“Who are you?” Benjay screamed. His confusion and frustration at the string of events clawed at the helms of his sanity. Was he running amok?

“Mosun Akinola, wife of the late Gbenga Akinola, who died of cocaine overdose while on his praise west-Africa tour…"

To be continued...

Image credit: Courtesy - jasonshen.com

PAINTED WORDS

I'm an artist 

I paint worlds with my keyboard.

My brush-strokes are words.

The oil I deep my brush into

drips from a priesthood higher than Aaron's beard.

The rhythm of my strokes are synonymous

 with the heartbeat of salvation.

Realism knows relatively nothing about 

the reality that I relate when I exhale

on my Microsoft canvas.

The points I make point out each self-evident truth, 

yet, from a perspective of pointillism, 

they collectively point to the whole truth - The only Truth.

This craft existed before me 

and will transcend every iota of the 

knowledge of my existence. 

The renaissance met & left it 

and civilization only recognizes ancestry 

because this craft laid the foundation for what 

vestiges of "awareness" we can glean. 

I picked up the brushes where the fathers dropped them,

my biological and otherwise lineage will 

wave the canvas when I conclude my patriotic duty.

It is the only craft that will stand where

and when all knowledge self-destructs. 

The craft of words 

Eternal words 

Elion's words...

Image Credit: Leonid Afremov on aliexpress.com