Temple

A temple built to honour the
Giver of Life
is drowning
flooded carelessly with cheap
conduct and desires
and beer
washing away whatever is
true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable
turning anything excellent or praiseworthy1
soggy and dog-eared.
'Mornings after' must be very
enjoyable events, terribly addictive so that
we can't help but repeat the same procedure
a million times over.
The familiar perfume of exposed
stomach acid and vodka
touching regrets
splitting headaches
must all be signs of a body thanking a brain
for a well-devised plan
sort of like flowers and a card
(which smell just as lovely and give the receiver
the same warm feeling inside).
In fact, the larger body
encourages such habits
to decrease the frequency of recurrence-
because no exchange of gifts is needed
when two are so well acquainted.
But too often it is closer to a surrender
than a victory.
Orsino knows how a love affair
steals and smells overpoweringly
before expiring much like a forgotten carton of milk:
"'Tis not so sweet now as it was before."2
At the same time
lost somewhere in the misguided brainwaves
a series of changing amplitudes avoiding all the white noise
a voice.
In mourning, not only on each of those mornings
but as soon as a decision is made
to silence it.
Because it cannot be silenced
though it is muted and twisted.
A wonder it is more faithful
than any puppy and continues
to whisper warnings
and alarm calls
even as is sinks and its calls are muffled
by the liquid filling its lungs
flailing not in self preservation
but to save the temple.

Footnotes
1  Philippians 4:8
2  Twelfth Night Act 1, scene 1, 7-8