by:

what chimes along to the ticks of the minute hand of my id outbids
the fumes of unseasoned incense for my soul
while sinews in my temple tense to dews of saline perspiration
at the hell of decision: beastly hordes cloaked in priestly robes teach conscience
(preach me the un-transience of hypocrisy instead of ghastly misconceptions)
navigate me through creaking gates of blind faith and into courts of rituals
guising gossip and hate, backstabbers of late fenced within its virtual comfort
sanding out with sensations of holy water the legions of coarse pores of murky perspiration
from exśrcising demons –
robed eminences inside forts of wealth profess humility to our confessions of poverty –
seems fury cooks on stoves of distress: re-ligion re-assessed
spirit drowned in quicksands of banality – nonchalance manifest.