The center of mass epiphanizes
The hum on either side
Of fervent hearts that realize
What has loved and died.
No thurible spewing smoke and ash
Can underline the hate that loves
To twist and turn and outwardly lash
At sinners posing as white doves
Service is a belief that work is done
When nothing is ever completed
In a world that revolves around the sun
And lost souls wondering and defeated
So what makes you think you’re saved
Sitting in pews lined with past transgressions
While the working man still behaves
And toils to long to pay concessions
There is no seat for the true believer
To sit and ponder other men’s accomplishments
With no time for the real deceiver
And his lies that darkly languish
Silence, that’s what I owe the preacher
Who screams once a week
Between whispers and cheers
Lifting themselves above the weak
My strength is the word spoken
By Christ and no one in between
This world and your words as token
Coins that shine just to be seen
So take your alters, your sanctuaries of smoke and mirrors
Open your glass windows anointed with plastic histories
I don’t need you to define my Savior
He lives within me, not stories
chrysalaneous 