Me, The Mere Worshipper

 



Me, The Mere Worshipper

We, the mere worshippers,

for gods and goddesses of our hearts.

The wits or the sight shall we claim arbiters?

Such sacrilege of affairs' arts.


Now lies, perhaps miles, above a statue,

calling my name to turn me a devotee.

With what lies beneath of all hues,

Perhaps her sight, for all this, a key.


A statue, perhaps, isolated,

Yet it swarms us with belief.

A hand, perhaps, desolated,

to ensure a journey, hoping not brief.


Surrounding us, a shell cracked,

To witness thy light, my appreciation.

Enveloping your visage, to distract,

Serves as evidence for Lord's creation.


Would I be my Orpheus to herald

the footsteps in my heart's sand?

Or perhaps, to carry my path whorled

like Isis to Osiris, 14 times my love's grand.


For mere worshippers, your sight a creation

and a flock flowing with heart-shaped ears.

A ration of our love, our hands as oars of damnation

to steer the years and pierce hearts with spears.


Your temples, irreligious, where we meet,

my praying hands, perhaps unattended.

A figure so divine and only the petite

shall meet in Sanctum Sactorum, descended.


And so danced my pen.

Started: September 8th

Published: September 24th

It wasn't enough.

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