We gathered where the fluorescent altars hum,
In cubicles arranged like chapel pews,
And drank the bitter sacrament of numb
While serving gods who calculate our use.

They taught us young to sever root from soul,
To trade the forest’s tongue for plastic speech,
And we who measured progress by control
Choked out the last wild hymn within our reach.

The liturgy begins at half past five—
An alarm, a crawl through ashen rain,
And rush-hour pilgrimages just to survive,
Our decades tithed upon the altar’s chain.

We bow before the god of compound growth,
Whose prophets speak in quarterly reports,
And sacrifice our children with an oath
Before their feral hearts can cut the cords.

The elders wear their watches made of gold,
And whisper that the market knows what’s best,
While ancient groves are gutted, priced, and sold
So shareholders may sanctify the rest.

I noticed how the rivers learned to burn,
And how the insects fell silent in their plots,
But priests in tailored suits said, “Why the concern?
The invisible hand connects the dots.”

When finally my body ceased to yield,
They thanked me with a card, showing me the door,
Then tossed me where the stripped earth lay revealed—
With whale bones, wolves, and everything before.

Now billionaires build rockets to escape
On fuel refined from everything we bled,
While we rot with land they scarred to shape—
The altar’s final offering, the dead.