Beware the one who wears the veil,
whose honeyed words can never fail,
she speaks of heaven, light, and grace,
but darkness hides behind her face.
Saint Dame, Saint Dame, the hollow chant,
a serpent wrapped in sacred cant,
her altar built on borrowed trust,
her halo forged from gilded dust.
She finds you at your weakest hour,
when grief has stripped away your power,
she offers comfort, peace, and light —
a spider spinning webs at night.
The desperate come, the lost, the frail,
she reads their wounds without fail,
then slowly, softly, draws them in,
beneath the church, the wolves begin.
Saint Dame, Saint Dame, the incense chokes,
the faithful bound in silken ropes,
devotion turned to iron chain,
salvation sold again, again.
She feasts upon your shame and doubt,
she dims your light from inside out,
the more you kneel, the more she grows,
a parasite in sacred clothes.
Her scripture bends to serve her will,
her miracles are theatre still,
she crowns herself with stolen prayers,
and climbs to heaven on your despairs.
So heed the signs behind the shrine,
not every holy thing is divine,
Saint Dame, Saint Dame — her chant shall fall,
for borrowed light casts no shadow at all.
When wolves wear wool and serpents sing,
*look past the robe, past the offering —*
true grace asks nothing, takes no throne,
and leaves no soul more lost, more alone.
Subject: A poetry on use of religion and identity as weapon to enslave the commoners of their rights using machine and human mind.
Good Day
