Waiting To Wake Up; The Proletariat's Cry #EmoRevelations

* Jesus, pray for me
* John, pray for me
* Saints in the church of Smyrna, pray for me

+-----EmoRevelations Chapter 2: Waiting To Wake Up; The Proletariat's Cry; The Anthem Of The Church In Smyrna 

Our jailer sleeps with the keys
to our cell exposed, the opportunity for
liberty hitched to his belt
lying against scratched breastplate
(soft spoken tallies of many wars,
the sublime cockiness of aging metal),
begging to be chanced by
extending our hands past oxidized bars
to hips raised
and lowered by inveterate and
boisterous snoring. The candles
flicker in anticipation of the tumult,
flames resigned to death
to be one with rising smoke and
falling ash. But we are content to
live for ten more days like this,
to dance the sacred hunger
dance in darkness, hands
clasping ribs, bodies that sway
themselves to sleep
while singing spiritual songs,
and to beckon the tips of whips
embedded with razors
on our bare bleeding backs
for denouncing Nero, for throwing
all caution to the wind and barking
to the world that Jesus is the Savior,
he is really Satan.
And we pray for the “Jews” that
ushered us here that prostrate
themselves before Dionysus
in secret, Sadducees
and Pharisees tearing away
hooded and cloaked from back
doors of synagogues to Temple
orgies, hastening
beneath tall shadow awnings of
trees and houses
cast by the full moon.
These men collude with ruthless
and unsparing tax collectors for
sin shekels,
amassing the golden currency
of Caesar’s guilt that barters death:
lavish carousing (with red wine)
in exchange for wailing widows
from their congregations, emaciated
orphans wasting away on city streets,
the lust of circling vultures.
These are the selfish riches of
this world that do not abide, but we wait
for enduring wealth, crowns bought
with our own blood that do not decay,
to take off the tattered rags
we wear as clothes,
manifold patches over fraying mesh,
and put on robes of pure white linen
reserved for the princes of peace in heaven
who restore justice.
No, one day our lazy jailer will
realize that he was truly the prisoner,
and we were free men
watching him dream.


-----Revelation 2:8-11
And unto the angel of the church in Smyrna write; These things saith the first and the last, which was dead, and is alive; I know thy works, and tribulation, and poverty, (but thou art rich) and I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan. Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days: be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life. He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; He that overcometh shall not be hurt of the second death.