Desert-starved mouths thirst for
The sounds of wordless hymns sung,
Dying on stale air,
Crashing on walls of sandstone silence
That reverberate into wordless, then
Screaming glossolalic rhythms
Fed by drought-wrought sermons,
Carrying a promise of water.
‘O ye whited sepulchre,
Whose Rosary a mere adornment –
A jewel, and not for prayer,
You cling to for frigid warmth.
Far more suited are ye
To dine at Pilate’s table
Than utter Jesus’ name
And bear unto him Pyrite,
Not Gold, at that holy stable.
You here, stand witness –
The pious fraud
Sing hymns and prayers within
While your sins abound abroad.
And ever cherry-pick your apples,
Rather than sit for long and read,
And understand the sacred words,
Rather than your own thoughts heed.