The indigenous sacrificed to the goddess —
money, food, flowers, flesh —
in sacred rituals elaborated on by
hundreds of years of exaggerated
intentions and selfish motives.

The priests string flags and bells
over doorways, creating tinkling
chimes of no significance.

Demons visit the temple,
pleased with the offerings,
the misery of the devotees,
the lavish lives of the cenobites.

The goddess never leaves
her summit,
and knows not of her






For The Sunday Whirl wordle.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

7 responses to “Sacrifice

  1. And, all that sacrifice was all so futile wasn’t it?
    Nicely said Mark!

  2. The last stanza is harsh, but I like it. 🙂

  3. Irene

    Yes such pagans. I like the hollowness, and how you end it.

  4. The power of this drives the piece. Well done, Sir Windham!

  5. Ouch – all that sacrifice for naught … well-said, a taut, terse piece … nice.

  6. Strong opening stanza. Love the sound of ‘cenobite’. I like the cynical truth of the final stanza.

  7. So futile and uselss, eh? Nice work.

Some of what I write is true, some is fiction; most is merely possibility.

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