A Poem

Okay, so completely off topic. But . . . eh . . .

Two Temples

I build my temple on a hill.

Come and worship with us; see the trappings that mark our devotion,

Gold and silver arranged just so,

Unblemished by those who would use such things,

To satiate unworthy stomachs.

This temple belongs to me.

I am glorified in my abundance; righteous in my opulence;

Lick my heel and be rewarded when I am gone,

For my corporate piety has promoted me.

Let my status be heralded again and again.

You, son, do not belong here.

Salty tears will stain; bloodied feet leave sanguine trails,

Across rugs not made for walking.

These are holy fibers,

Sewn from pecuniary tithes - in numbers known precisely.

I am the High Priest of this temple.

See the knife cut through familial sinew, tendon, heart,

Woman, children—such distinctions hold no sway.

Only the beautiful and deserving walk my grounds,

And have the privilege to call me father.

Two temples sit upon the hill,

One to reap and one to sew; see them thus together?

To each tokens of devotion cast.

But most of all I am pleased to note,

Of the two, mine is slightly higher.