Sanctified Silk

Reverent white robes commissioned,
Humbly woven from finest silk,
By villagers hands folded in thanksgiving
Of abundant harvest and healthy milk.

These silk robes are pristine and flowing
Embellished and hand-stiched with golden gimp
By a woman's raw fingers perpetually praying
Her affliction endured; her body limp.

Finest details, hand pressed with care
By a humble laundry man's dedication
Labor endured through steaming sweat
And daily prayerful meditation

Holy garment, created by hands of faith
Woven, stitched, appliqued and pressed
For God’s self-appointed cloistered disciple
His virtue now magnified in a gold-trimmed vest.

Priestly procession quotes sacred words.
He powders his buttocks, clips his nose.
He'll preach from the pulpit, call sinners to shame,
When sought for counsel, he'll be indisposed.

Served supper on gold-rimmed china,
He'll feast on a gourmet meal at nine.
After which, he'll enjoy aged brandy
So far removed from Christ’s bread and wine.

Soon he’ll shed those silkened white robes
And sleep on a narcissistic bed laid
In between sheets folded and fluffed
By his ever-faithful dutiful maid.

This man of self-importance, so empty inside,
Skipping his own daily prayers.
He's simply too full....too tired.
These silk robes, strayed far from their Master,
Only they know who is sanctified.

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