Iconoclasm

Burn the false idols, burn them all.
Tear the tapestries of better times,
Paint over murals on the wall.

I once worshipped an ego for a God,
But my piety brought no awe,
And once where sacred angels trod,
There dances a harlot on the floor.

In blind faith and wide-eyed adoration,
I loved the cracked, cold statue;
Now the dawn lights my miscalculation,
So I rip apart the church of you.

The Devil makes work for idle hands,
As she makes crude use of mine,
So as you starve in heaven’s wastelands,
In Hell, I mock our better times.