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A Thief In London
Churches in America don’t ring like you,
Westminster Abbey.
Your ceilings could house the stars,
Contain the heavens that you sell
For a few pennies to believers.
You are the image of ancient faith
And I violate you
with
every
step.
The air that fills your lungs is
Tainted by my very breath.
For such an open cavity,
You crush my bones.
There’s a boy my age,
He sits alone in a wooden pew that stretches
For miles.
His hands fly over his chest,
tracing a cross that’s left a groove of somebody else’s bruises
Across his heart.
Inside his mind are the magnificent
Golden gates of a promised future.
Your stone walls soak him in
Like a thirsty creature from some time
Long, long ago.
Candlelight paints itself across my chest,
Thousands of prayers,
And I’ve never prayed once.
Instead of worship, I have stolen you with my greedy eyes,
I have placed you on a dusty shelf in my mind,
Alongside Shiva’s pastel smile
And the lightning bolt
I pried from Zeus’s fingertips.
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