Temple

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Pure Mothman

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And what a gift! The slowness of the day
As our decadence grows ever detrimental
If God would but grant me the power of speech
I'd turn these idle words into your temple

At the cost of my filters I'll lay its foundations
At the cost of my selflessness I'll set up its gates
For the one true architect hurries not Her vision
It wanders and scatters and percolates

And on our seventh lap around the parking lot
O, the winds of Jupiter will coalesce
Like a tent stake driven through my temple
Don't drink that coffee boys you'd never guess

And it builds so slow and without movement
You claw your way out of the pit you wake up in the garden again
I'll swear by every fluid ounce of courage in my mouth
I will learn to be your friend

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