Religion

It's a sorry excuse for religion, I know, we light the crucifix of gasoline and climb into the flames we charge admission to our immolation We use to think we were dangerous youth with frightening ideas, huffing the glory of our ageless wisdom. At twenty-three and twenty-four you're the withered hag, I, the wizened geezer- teens on inline skates laugh at our daring to think we're cool The sixteen-year-old suicidal poet was in vogue one year I played my role with great panache- you were stunning as my muse decked-out in gothic threads; but our moment in the sun flickered like a butane spark and now, we live lives of therapy recovery reality and bills. It's a sorry excuse for religion but on our Sunday mornings we trudge to our church of melancholy on our knees among our towers of "modern rock" CD's I, the toothless soothsayer, you, the skeletal crone, we relive the thirty seconds of meaning in our lives Written January 5th, 2002 © on Jan 05 2002 11:12 AM PST   0 • 10