St. John's

A smoke machine behind the shrine,

it wisps waves of vaporized water,

water which was cared for.

water touched, blessed

water meant to cleanse

to purify

Only those tired of the filth and muck,

only if you so choose

to acknowledge your wretched existence

and submit.

A man in a robe bows before a book placed on an overly ornate table.

He holds the book above his head,

and takes this book somewhere else.

Across the room,

to a seperate ornate pedestal.

A man follows him, swinging a ball and chain filled so with refrain,

or atleast you would think.

Not so much the full circle,

but a crescent pendulum,

spitting and hissing of vapor with every peak.

A cloud gathers,

and it envelops,

this human being so elevated

The stations of the sacrifice surround me,

and I am devoured by the hard work and blood of craft.

Exile and denial,

ritual and sacrifice.

A hunger rolls through my body,

not for the opiates of the spiritual fancy,

But for an ever-present reality which can satisfy the hole which faith cannot.  Something to plug the great gap in mind and biological adaptation.  An adaptation to quell this horrible anxiety, to stifle the incessant wonder, of the greatest mystery, and the most painful secret

We begin breaking bread,

and as women prepare to move forward,

they clutch tight to their purses.

For even in the palace of faith, man cannot be trusted.