could she be a literary pope,
signs on the pages arranged
into a Latin-like custom, out of ether
into that virtually diminishing world,
hands-on experience traded for nothing
but practice of high hopes to evolve,
making a difference that simple, effective,
measurable enough to reach.
instead could she dream of something real,
cold, sharp, plausible; stop saying to her
practise only what you preach

it's not a church therein
aching for some sanctuary
since she's on a steep *****.
with some bookish praise still echoing
high-brow bigotry far away
in messages too slow,
she knows only to be in the moment

there pages may feel shame,
money might talk loud,
augmented hands carry powers,
about to be contemporary gods.
could she be told a book is just a book?
shaking from within,
shaken to her core,
a lurking reality:
numbers of them biting the dust,
appeasing, retiring into nonsense
and whatnot,
they revel in everything