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"Fallen Idol"

All it took was a small push
And my false idol cracked
With impurity
Perched precariously
On the edge of his niche.

My idol would have to change
If it were to be strong
And pure
And real
Not some god whose brow
Seemed alabaster
But became china plasticine
With a little illumination.

But where to find
My idol
When my life had been devoted
To One
My self enveloped in his worship?

As always, in his Destructor
Before the masque ends,
The scarlet, smoky bane of his existence
And death.
Death would find the false immortal
And have him shatter in splinters
On the dirt floor.

There must always be a replacement
For an obsessive daughter.
We like to give patronage
To the pure
And with his imminent fall,
The insubstantial one who was once
Simply a doll
Terrycloth and cotton
Becomes a tin soldier meant to grow
Into the idol that my once-master once was.

So I go to him in white.
They put me in chains,
But how can I mind chains that I choose?
My marionetting doll circles and shapes me,
Looking for motive
When all I have is worship,
A need
For an idol,
For I am rich and desire possession.

He strips me until I become his china,
Caresses me like a fine vase,
Looks for my imperfections,
Finds them everywhere,
And mends them with new glass.
At last, my incense offering is accepted.
The new idol is placed in the niche
Earthy wood and paint
To wait
Until this idol wears thin.
I am the willing precious sacrifice
For all fallen idols.