Pillow Fort

You stacked comfort

in rectangles of pillowed softness,

feathers plucked from the down

of morals,

stuffed-alters,

plucked from backs you bawk behind.

white and pinstriped blue virtue,

quiet enough to hush the hum of conscience.

Blankets placed,

just so, atop them,

thin veils of righteousness

woven from threads

that drape gospel,

around a pulpit fashioned from soap boxes

that have never seen a Sunday morning.

Inside,

the light no longer reaches,

nothing blooms;

He's forgotten the sun

was never just for show;

that comfort, when it rots,

is sin itself,

and a room without windows,

leaves one left,

looking at their own reflection,

still calling itself holy.

Still calling itself home.

As the petals shrivel,

and He plucks others to feed himself,

the air turns to stillness.

No one asks then

who laid the first pillow

down.