Temple Of The Self

dead people, broken people,
everywhere you look.
mouths moving, cant talk,
empty pages in a book.

eyes glazed, half dazed,
afraid of their shadows.
bought the lie, never questioned why,
cant move unless they follow.

and the sound of the heart
shakes the ground.
hunger burns, the sea churns,
and babies drown.

you pray to God,
but your prayers fall amid the furor.
in the temple of the self
bowing down to the mirror.

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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