Household Idols

In the attic of the mind

The nightwind throws itself

Against the window pane

In ritualistic waves,

Tediously chanting

The hymn of existence.

We are forgotten, it sings,

We are household idols gathering dust upon the shelf,

Living Baals

Pouring out libations

To absent prophets,

And screaming curses

To the earless night.

Till what is it but sunrise takes us,

And we drown in a pillar of fire,

Descending into the earth

Surrounded by worshippers,

Finally alone,

Finally, by some strange paradox,

Loved.