To her, religion was a weapon
to hit people over the head with;
to trigger someone's surprise,
to overthrow expectations;
to illuminate an alleged uniqueness
from the haze of the herd,
etched in bittersweet amazement,
though the contrivance consumed her
through eating disorders and high-voltage
deductions,
carved into her insides, gnawing at her
like a tropical malignancy,
while reason dressed up
in folly's sacred carte blanche,
in state-supported otherworldliness
where a fool never issues any defense speech
and the powerbrokers of double standards,
- in bizarre attire and good incomes -
assert the sweet selectiveness of inexplicability

She moves ghostly in the god-house,
familiar with everything's position;
where Lent stands like an old chest of drawers,
where Easter bursts in yellow yolk,
slick as brain substance,
where Pentecost's will-o'-the-wisps flicker
in the sexual fanaticism of speaking in tongues,
and where she doesn't need to wander in curiosity
or doubt;
never hesitating or examining closely,
as she walks stale-eyed
in the well-structured power hierarchies
of insanity
throughout the church year, locked in liturgical lethargy
along the misleading handrails of rituals and formalities,
away from herself, far, far away from herself