Everything is idolatry today, wanted and worshipped.

I step on the pavement, tears falling from a sky I feel no sympathy for,
the water runs biblical over my skin and I feel the stories attempting to soak,
wanting to teach me something, but the sharpness of their feeling
blurs my hands to show my life before death, wrinkled and blue.

Puddles form, drains run, and the children dance like children do,
mocking the adults as they scatter for cover, not wanting their sin to wash,
horrified at the thought of feeling something pure as though
the mere thought took them one step closer to faith, to Hell.

I crack my dry face with a smile and the water falling misses me,
slips from my skin onto the ground, sizzling as it hits, as it escapes me,
knowing to soak into my skin would be to dirty even the rains purity,
tainting something untaintable, too hot to allow itself to boil in.

The sellers and dancers on the street are the only ones not taking cover,
the former know its too late and the latter have yet to learn enough to be sin,
and on every corner another woman sells herself to a man unknown,
symptomatic of the dog collars in the local church taking their vows.

I light the cigarette at my side, dragged in that dirty pleasure and breathed,
breathed in smoke and mirrors to see the trick of it, exhaled the devil that knew
I was too far gone for him to bother trying, job done, seat sold, ticket in the mail,
like a toxin a blessing a time for undressing, fold after fold after fold.

Like an angel biting at their shoulder, exfoliating, parents feed kin lies,
food for thought that will turn them commercial, uncaring, and un-faith-filled,
only hungry for the Id, magazines over bibles, Prada over prayer,
a free deal with the devil with every happy meal, just don’t squeal.

I pause over a thought, a glimmer of hope that fades before I can capture it,
and the moment I walk on I see the point of no return and feel at ease with losing,
with being one more of the many falling way after the fall, like I, like you,
like we are carrying a tradition set by righteous parents that did not know better.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...