marquee of stone squats vast as pyramids
each granite arch yawns wider
no sun no warmth may enter
who owns this space ?
not god not me not the priest here
not the devoted who file through each day
ants moving over granite to kiss a picture
a pair of pigeons made black by the stone
flaps across the gaping void
wings inside this place shocking loud
they sit high up in the great dome
at home and chattering in places beyond our reach
lords here:
the meek have inherited

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