The Mall

Rabid shoppers don't seem perturbed By the mall's humid microwaved air. In this cathedral of consumption The new gods are glossy items; Cut price souvenirs not ancient relics. The glassy eyed worshippers here, Kneel before miracles of mass production; Genuflect before inflated jeweled junk. These acolytes are vaguely connected By a shared fetish for branded idols. They do not come here to converse Or communicate soul to soul For this is the way of the world now. There's no place for obscure mysteries; Only the allure of desirable objects; Only deluxe rituals of ornamental order Can assuage the perennial, mortal despair. Yet no one is to be redeemed it seems, Although this curious, secular congregation, Is bathed in a halo of cool, artificial light.