I look at the mass of babbling faces,
the mismatched colours in the awkward lighting,
scarves riding either too high or too low,
the murmur of voices, the occasional cackle,
the uncomfortable feeling of the carpet feeling slick with filth.
oh, they do not smell but I feel the stench.
they are not screaming but it rings in my ears.
they are smiling, but oh I cannot see any joy.
is it me, is it me?
am I just not content?
but I cannot understand them and their hesitant
servitude, their content orthodoxy, their quiet worship
who? who are they praying to? who are they thanking?
they are not content, they are not happy
but admitting so would lead them away from their veneer of
holy servitude, happy slavery.
there is nothing holy about this. nothing.
god is not there with you and your screaming children.
you and how you shift when your head is on the unvacuumed carpet.
you and your mouth growing bitter with the constant saliva.
as you parrot meaningless words of god’s good.
never never never would you or could you think of something different.
unthinkable, inconceivable.
yet your mind wanders. you know.
you know you care more about your food then about your prayers.
the show is more entertaining to watch than the lecture.
the jolly tune more seducing than the recitation.
because you know you know you know too
that there is nothing holy about this.