I Was A Rasta - Chris Hudson

I was a Rasta, a Taoist, Zen, Christian, Buddhist, Pagan
Homeless, poor, yet wealthy and landed
My forebears knew Christ, yet the horned god
And the void were more to my taste
Experiences received, lived and believed
Dogma unearthed, I came, I saw yet was unheard
And unsung, senses burned
And clung to one word
Unfolded karmic ritual of soul
The astral path my one and only goal
Once imprisoned in electric cell of force-field
In a static hell smothered in If-words of doubt
My entire being vibrating to the call of the crystal
My universe within forced out
Seed of all life, put my enemies to route
At last to fall, and break my path
Between gates of logic, ether-breeze
Bust open all doors, for I reached into the womb of earth
Where I beheld all fruits of wisdom and worth
The ancient shrine stood yet undefiled
A sight all too glad for longing eyes!
Blistered by such radiant smiles
Eyes flutter, hearts pound, hands that
Are likened as to butterflies
From what befalls of time and the
Nexus of an aggregate of chance and twisted fate
This hand that stayed to reach the sky
From these clouds heaven’s bolt alighted
Carried from the hole cold blasted and blighted
Airy hail which pounded in the place
Where wealth is not measured by weight or rod
Where sun shines on rich and poor alike
I was touched by the hand of God
He showed me, in a dream
He left his mark, told me I was to be a poet
(Please do not kick this poor sod,
For I do try not to show it.)
Hark! Cracks at the gates of dawn!
Has the Golden Horn yet sounded?

Chris Hudson