(Warning: this poem is not for the religiously inclined.)
For centuries, entrepreneurs Have been selling slivers Of the True Cross of Jesus Promising how much it delivers. Of course, if they were any part Of the real True Cross at all The weight of all that wood means The cross was thirty feet tall.
Still, it is only meant to be A symbol of The Son Of God Who got murdered and transformed Into a deity, but that's odd. It’s like all the Romans making A ****** dagger their sign Of the purity of Julius Caesar; Revered if not quite divine.
Or maybe worshipping the bullet That killed Kennedy or King. Are we sure that kind of devotion Is the right way to the right thing? But fonts full of holy water did The trick for many centuries. So, maybe the faithful don’t care About ecumenical vagaries.
Yet I don’t hold much hope out For businesses of spirituality Who put up golden castles In zones of the most abject poverty. Anyone who thinks a god Needs to look down on glitz Promises not much more Than a dogma from the pits.
We need to celebrate what we have And not so much what is lost. What has all the jewels and gold And superstition added to the cost? I prefer to keep my integrity and Check out who’s the real boss. Knowing that it might upset those Who get weepy about a cross.