A House of Worship

I sat in the dust,

sores and boils on my skin,

organs malfunctioning, synapses misfiring,

deep wounds festering in my soul,

outside a house of worship.

Come to me,

said the owner of the house of worship,

and I offer you,

balms for your sores and boils,

healing for your organs and mind,

salvation for your soul.

I sat in the dust,

and peer into the dim interior,

of the house of worship,

at the workers whom the owner has engaged

to run his house of worship.

Come to me,

but I recoil at what I have seen within,

self-righteousness that coat like a second skin,

false smile that hide the mind of ambition,

starvation for my soul.

I sat in the dust,

and wait and wait and wait,

come home, oh owner of the house,

come home to fulfil your promises

maranatha, come home.

.