“In my own image”
With the authority of knowing by rote they read
Blind crows with a taste for their own feathered deeds
Their own fathers, emperors of delusion and greed
Borne by weakness, they are their own seed
Their podium the throne and pulpit of god
The man in the mirror, whose eyes gray and wilde
Lose focus on purpose in favor of shade
And smile at the creature willfulness made
A vanity of pathological denial
Hellbent to control the world if not themselves
A Medusean redemption purchased with fools gold
A bold lie fashioned from Hollywood
Silken words woven into satin so sheer
Their luster and flattery catch every ear
And belief is a truth that is never as clear
As when men rob the grave so that they can stay here
They read and are read from the book of the dead
Each letter of each page inked in their own hand
Unseen by ears of fear and inferiority
And so elected from the damned they decree
“In my own image…!”
And every amen, though deafening, knows
That there is no heaven where men are alone
