Temple

So build me up and leave in me an arch.

Through this arch may all who wish

come as they please;

a pilgrimage to me.

For I have been told:

my body is a temple.

Believe the rainfall to be my tears

and cup your hands to catch my sorrow.

Those who told me my body was sacred will now tell you:

"Tears are good for your skin."

Those who held out their hands and bottled my sorrow to sell will say:

"These tears are good for your skin, health will come as this body will weep."

They will broadcast my tearjerkers on television

and replace the cumshot with a promise:

"The tears you cry from this story will leave you ageless."

Desperate to hear and flood your face

with the salt you believe I aim to drain from you,

you will call out to me through them.

And I will hear your cries

through the numbers you dial

and the minutes you pay for.

The temple stands in the sun and the stone cracks.

The people realise the truth standing naked before the mirror.

The salty tears I gave down their aging faces.

"You have forsaken me."

They stuff screwed up crimples of paper into my cracked walls.

They come faster

and greater

and more numerous.

Now I am nothing more than a target.

My body is a temple and through the arch you left in me people flood.

My body is a temple and within me stands the frustration the betrayal the defeat the denial the anger the uglyness and the hate;

bursting at the seams.

The television watching Macabees have come to crumble me and leave.

So push me down and leave only the space through which you walked,

so you may exit me again with ease.

But one day forgive me,

for I was told,

just as you are,

that my body was a temple.