White smoke erupts from golden censers.
Drapes drawn to hide a radiant face.
Knees bent before the holy master.
Jewels fall before the feet of his grace.
Large Jars uncorked, he pours libations.
His hands present a sacrifice.
He whispers songs of adoration.
Dance-ritual for a god enticed.
He breaks a jar of alabaster
Pours the perfume on his own head
The crown of gold, he is the caster
And signet rings he wore himself.
Who is the lord that serves himself?
This deity that’s his own servant?
What does he lay on his own altars?
Why is he praising his own name?
Sneak beyond the many courtyards
Make your way beyond the fold
To see the face of this strange idol
Your own reflection in the mirror.
Who made the fingers that wear the ring.
Who made the head where his crown sits.
He doesn’t care, he never wonders
He can’t because of his disease.
His heart is king over his choices
His stomach rules, its word is law.
His passions birth all of his vices
And yet he thinks he’s all in all.
EmahPurpleWriter 