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How much of this redness can we wipe up

Title: How much of this redness can we wipe up?

A temple of worship life is.
Worship has become doors; 
we open and we close.
Like the Captains of God’s ships 
we glide high-pitched the rain clouds,
plowing on the seas of time 
up we head to heaven’s endless coast.
Like the flighted birds we find Faith
Parachute; Faith becomes.

Religion ties us to nature’s canvas,
our actions it dictates
upon the faith we uphold it thrives.
Its white garment of morality we wear
as a dress-shield against earthly nakedness.
Under its white wings our acts are judged
our conducts become law books upon which
our acts are caged as birds.

Upon a checkered homeland religion inchoate
typified by syncretized souls with polytheistic ancestry,
a religion was bequeathed a la fatigued nation.
Though unsolicited, yet was forced upon souls
heartily, hearts embraced.
Believers hold tenaciously hallowed distinct pedagogy
on the word of faith rested on pedestals, and
buttressed by doctrines passed down as heirlooms.

In our hands the bottle gourds are broken.
Molten, our hearts have become and heated 
by hot wars in temples, where
innocent bloods are sprinkled. 
Oodles of blood have been splashed
in barmy wars with unjustifiable religious claims
nourished by intolerance; bigotry; and hypocrisy.
Heaven’s garments are torn; 
and twines of our parachutes are cut into pieces
as we lurch in this killing spree.

The water is heated;
the temperature has risen
Faith is consumed in the red fire we instigated
our hearts have turned a red heat
we need a cold pack to keep cool.
Lethargic, the temples have become,
soulless religion has turned out to be 
our fates have become a Wandering Jew. 
Like a heart without a vessel, religion breathes.
This chaotic mixture we have created,
how much of its redness can we wipe up?

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