Ultraphrenia

I’d like to say, “I don’t believe in ghosts,”

and once, for all, forget the bogeyman,

or else, I might request the Host of Hosts

deliver me from Jesus in a can.

Our name is “Legion,” (“Hey, that’s my name, too!”)

or “Daniel,” if a prophet you’ll believe

despite the proof we never give to you,

or is it past your power to perceive?

There’s no one, at a frayed end of a rope,

in ignorance, “God’s” voice cannot deceive.

You think “He” means you well—abandon hope.

The infinite looks on “Him,” not aggrieved.

Love looks on sin, and saves without concern,

without condition, while “He” picks which burn.