The Scapegoat

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 2/6/08

How strangely the night infects us. The precise
Way that the thin layerings of cloud insinuate
Themselves into everything, the mountain, the trees,
Our houses, our very skin becoming veil
On veil of shimmering mistiness, so that we do not even
Recognize the distinction between the human
And non-human, between waking and sleeping,
Between ourselves and the massive, murderous Other.
We have been thrust into this impossible possible liminal
State where the initiation is already underway
Before we realize that it is our own flesh
That is being scarified, our own life
That is being wrenched from its societal
Socket and sprung violently into a world
Of impersonation and freedom and pain.
Even alone, in our houses, we experience
Going beyond. The familiar edges have all disappeared,
And the God being born in our own lank belly
Is garlanded again for the vates’ blade.
How many times have we fallen? How many times
Must we fall, before we realize that these
Tribal entities defending themselves against bliss,
Have chosen us to bare their sins for them,
Have chosen to elude their violent sorrow
By casting us into ecstatic fire?

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