In the temple of death, worshippers masked
bequest the keys to their freedom unasked.
Those who submit implore and castigate
proselytizing at the golden gate.
Luckily I, aligned with source, walk by
head held high with unrestricted breath. Live
in this sacred vessel precious, I fetch
sanctuary. No more runaround wretch.
The evident lacuna in this tale
requires a bridge, for logic clearly fails.
This premise, unacceptable and sly
does not appeal. The light reveals the lie.