believer
I could be no further from
the realMoney is my food and is
my shelter
As it turns out I am a
pope
just of the crisp, unholy
kind
A cardinal of all things
cash
I kneel, to kiss and fold my
saviour
baptised, I sleep rough, in a
bed of paper
dreaming of raining fake
planes
circling, slowly they fall
around my ears
Tillich, in the distance, blows
the ivory horn, calling
Yet, where is this capital God I long for?
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