Tiny temple

If my body is a temple,

Is faith dead?

No man has worshipped here for so long,

I fear no one ever will,

Like a priest eagerly watching as the covenant is passed,

No one makes an offertory,

No one puts anything in,

The pot was once full and abundant,

Now empty, only me to hold it, all.

The sunshine hits my temple,

I feel present, I remember my teachings,

If faith IS innate,

Why do they take, take, take,

Come,

Light their wick,

Revel in the peace, the oneness, the harmony,

Leave and forget,

So much time since this temple held value to anyone but me,

Is is futile to to worship here?

A lone priestess,

Reading,

preaching,

Affirming,

I recall the beginning of my faith,

When I took communion,

Corpus Christi,

The tiny temple full,

Full of hope,

It would be a place of growth, of family,

Of union and expansion,

Love would come,

If In fact I am healed, I am righteous,

Why is my temple derelict,

No one remains to pray,

Like a discarded bicycle, rusted,

Useful now discarded after years of carrying,

Like symbolic racism,

I am here, people pretend I am not,

Covertly ignoring the truth,

But is ignorance bliss?

Is it paradise? Nirvana,

Is an outward display of religiosity,

Not sacred?

is my temple irrelevant?

They talk of spirituality,

Connection, unity,

Yet when shit really hits the fan,

They don’t FaceTime their friends,

They come home to me,

I guess I’m invisible unless in servitude,

When their cup is empty they will cry out my name for it to be filled,

Banging down the doors,

Thirsty for redemption,

In the meantime I wait,

Safe in my temple,

My sanctuary,

My home,

I reside,

The temple may be void of man,

Yet it’s full of God.