this post was submitted on 22 Jan 2024
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In the House of the Lord we devout our lives.
Each narrow fiscal year brings new tithes.
My family is hungry, my daughters are cold.
Clasped hands pray above an idol of gold.
We pray for prosperity, of which we were not blessed.
This condition is reserved for those who are His best.
"All are made to toil", the priest assures me yet.
The Lord requires extravagence, and I gave at His behest.
Fine silks, linens, and furs given freely to confer
our love for Him is beyond superb.
His steps bound over us, unrequited and unperturbed.
In the House of the Lord we devout our lives.
Souls transmute to gold, a baby's monetized cry. Helpless towards each other, under His watchful eye.
Mammon's grip grows as our humanity dies.