The wind caresses my form as I stand still and supine, enduring the onslaught in apathy; an old wench mumbles in the distance, "Jesus would play with evil, as would a beast who toys with prey, scattering it across his fathers grapevine as dark petals from a wicked rose." Her words empty, like the wind, a whisper that does not want an answer; I answered in silence anyway. "So much for sin and sacred law; divinity is accepting evil and good as equals, mere mirrors of each other." God doesn't watch with eyes he has not, and his hold cannot grasp anything unless one manifests him with hands and fingers. So then, who really has the power? Faith and sacred beings are but a childs toy, a stuffed animal designed to comfort; can you believe the irony? Control takes form from the hands of men that yearn for things holy. As I would the wind- I stand before god as a still form, unrelenting. I have no need for a deity or its forgiveness, since there is no guilt in me for having faultered; I learn from mistakes, correcting my imperfections. My spirit does not avoid the beast that resides in me- I harness what it has to offer and turn blood into wine; soon I'll walk on water, my lips will drink the Nile dry, and I will live on even after my body has gone to rot. "Kings and Gods may feud, but their mighty armies and castles shall buckle before kneeling to the corrosion of time and the gentle touch of soft winds; their conflict an exercise in comic futility." Sun sets, and the wench slips away into quiet rest, the wind echoing her frail words; I linger and laugh at her riddle that begs not to be solved.