Altars are affairs of papacy's souls.
In sacrifice, free thought is thrown, tethered,
Gagged by oracles splashed sacrilege, bowls
Of bloody hands ready to slit brothers

Naïve throats. Woe, unto you, world, who bow
Before self-offered altars of sheep-bought
Skins! Man’s journey cannot end by flawed cows
Of arrogant gold… Behold! What you’ve sought,

What you seek in Gods, is profaned folly,
In desecrating sacrosanct environs
Of flesh-built divinity. Heresy
Is a word honored by mind-withdrawn pawns.

Gone is man-minded gods’ ability
To debase what, in each man, is holy.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 3/18/05