Often in life, we make bloody sacrifice to
The alter of procedure. Whether we slay
An hour, a moment, a day,
We must pay the price. At times
At the bureau, at the pantheon
We offer our worship to worthlessness itself,
Knowing there is no epiphany, really,
But embracing the rites, counting the rosaries,
Going through the motions.
It is how, eventually, miracles must happen.
We praise an irrelevance,
A pro forma, or a certification
Of some more salient fact.
The driving licence, the passport: these are given
Greater weight to us than freedom.
The marriage certificate, when requested
By an official, is worth more than any vow.
It is the idol of the God that takes this praise.
We bow and make obeisance. Notice
How often, we must revere these paper gods,
Untouched by fire, dry to our faithless touch.
I work in probate. In all honesty I do love my work: but, yeah. As above.