The Digital Shrine: A Poem
The digital shrine has an altar
where the worshipping and slaughtering of humans take turns.
It is sacred today and bloody tomorrow
as humans are reverenced today and blotted out the next.
Like a cow’s plight,
when you reach the maturity of mistakes,
the ardent worshippers will ardently
draw up their swords to slaughter at a lick.
When you pick salt over sugar against their law,
you are either hanged or butchered in cold blood,
depending on their choice of verdict.
Your meats will be distributed in the markets of blogs and news,
or your body given up without esteemed biddings.
Your skeleton alone will be your naked clothing.
Call-out is their sword,
Speak-out, their strangling rope.
You do not get to choose between repentance or your life,
it has to be the latter.
By the rule of their law,
the slayers have become the slain,
and the models, the molded.
So, plant your delight in the gracefulness of your heart.
Do not delegate its care to another
for never has it been heard in the history of mankind
of a delegate successful in such a task,
not even the smartest of all.
Feed your worth with your lip-made food
for hardly would a mother feed her child poison.
But if you insist on delegating,
ensure to patronize the tissue sellers around you
as you would be needing wraps of privacy
to soak up the fluids of pain escaping through
the bars of your eyes, nose, mouth, and skin
when it’s time.
Cooperate with the gods to grow new flesh
when the former is distributed at a wholesale price
to the hungry market
because you would be counted among the numbers of their finished works.
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