I approach
The golden site of prayer.
Ashes
Surround the altar, testaments
To the ascensions of the past.

I am not
The first to pad up to the
Empty obsidian
Eyes.
Engulfed in nauseating decadence.

Appeasing prayers pour
Flood-like from my
Broken tongue.
They dry and dissolve
An indifferent drought.

The eyes narrow…
Expectantly
They want
More or less?
The same or different?

Lips part to begin
Again.
The flame yet unlit.
Un-kindled by the proper prose.
A damp dread.

Before an obtuse wag
Of wet tongue
The lids slam shut.
I am condemned
To remain simple flesh.