Genes of Dissidence

 If prior lives of humans were possible, I think I was one of the heretics

Burned at the stake, angry at the populace’s notions of god

There is nothing that irks me more than being accused of a wrong

I know I did not commit.

The only thing worse is to be accused of something which I know to be

Against my principles, this is as if the accuser is stating ignorance

Of who I am, not the rudimentary label to me of liar

But of reconfigured facts, as if the universe is not the universe.

Sentiment becomes empirical rationed data to be presented

Against proven hypotheses as an equal standard of measure

As a mile walked by one man could be calculated differently than a mile by another

As if things are unequal based on perceived burden rather than the tone of muscle

Or earned ease, the calculations prostrate the meek to the capricious avarice

Of the blessed by spirit, by gilded treasury, or by the reputable currency of rumor

The mills spin their wheels and all that is left after the grindstone

Is a notion of sustenance engulfed in a parade of understanding before learning.

I am nauseous at the thought that I could abide such fervor and

Not set my body to death rather than acknowledge this as truth.

I would like to believe this to be, but then again as old a soul as I feel

I do not believe in such splits as severable essence, maybe parts of me have been parts of others

In other universes, to which by parts I mean the genes in me which exist beyond matter

From primordial soup of chromosomes arranging back to organizing energy banged out

Which once consolidated by full gravity compressed from prior matter into energy

From energy out to matter, this may be, but here on this Earth, no

Here in this universe, no, but so

Maybe there and then was so very similar to here

Varying slightly so that maybe there I was the accuser rather than the accused

Knowing the hypocrisy and guilt of exactly the wrong I had done

Somehow I feel it in the dissidence in my genes