the duties are conferred
a scratch that one ignores
You place the Bible, the Koran or the Gita
in one's hand,
tell them to close eyes.
The mind's inner sanctum is now full,
enough sunshine through a day.
A mere puppet collapses
somewhere, behind the curtains
a papa's girl cries to the applause.
Warriors have no name to identify
unforgiving fruit of hell snarls,
each one sits with one's own platter
the song runs,
the lights turn dim.