To her, religion was a weapon

to hit people over the head with;

to trigger someone's surprise,

to overthrow expectations;

to illuminate an alleged uniqueness

from the haze of the herd,

etched in bittersweet amazement,

though the contrivance consumed her

through eating disorders and high-voltage

deductions,

carved into her insides, gnawing at her

like a tropical malignancy,

while reason dressed up

in folly's sacred carte blanche,

in state-supported otherworldliness

where a fool never issues any defense speech

and the powerbrokers of double standards,

- in bizarre attire and good incomes -

assert the sweet selectiveness of inexplicability

She moves ghostly in the god-house,

familiar with everything's position;

where Lent stands like an old chest of drawers,

where Easter bursts in yellow yolk,

slick as brain substance,

where Pentecost's will-o'-the-wisps flicker

in the sexual fanaticism of speaking in tongues,

and where she doesn't need to wander in curiosity

or doubt;

never hesitating or examining closely,

as she walks stale-eyed

in the well-structured power hierarchies

of insanity

throughout the church year, locked in liturgical lethargy

along the misleading handrails of rituals and formalities,

away from herself, far, far away from herself