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.
