I’ve bowed down at some shrines throughout my days.
With reverence through those thresholds I did glide.
All hallowed be those holy entryways;
such spaces I regard as rarefied.
Whatever vault of spirit’s blaze I pierce —
a chapel, church or vast cathedral span —
I take no unrewarded souvenirs
save only my advancement as a man.
However, not all altars are the same;
the chancel which they grace will play a part.
Not every sacred place sets me aflame.
Not all sanctorums scintillate my heart.
Of all the times I’ve been through temple doors,
the only ones I’d worship in are yours.
© 2011, Alan Morrison