by candle-light, we scribe

end to my temple;

no religion rests here

from brain past the flesh

with blood clogging fresh.

i read graffiti walls;

to confirm my precious doubts

in meaning through soul i sight

and reason to lie i might.

nobody shall sit perfect;

that's as i am told

by real life heathen gods

who's deceit to many fold.

as i climb such infinite stair;

the temple will lay in confide

it's existence - not to the worshipped,

but to the sun of

wide-eye monks,

external actors,

and stale affirmations.

hurricane to decimate solitude

down a whirlpool of crimson;

within their barrel i stare

down rabbit hole infatuation;

with what i must and what i lust

to delay the ticking time-bomb atom-bomb

of

the end to my temple.