Their Heaven Has Valet Parking
Behind the gilded gates where angels wear Armani and the wine’s kept cold,
Where sanctity’s a stock option, and the offering plate’s engraved with gold,
The saints arrive in tailored suits, their prayers are screens,
their sins erased—A congregation cleansed by money, not by mercy,
not by grace.Pews of leather, marble altars, Bibles sealed in glass displays,
While those outside the velvet rope kneel in alleys, lightless,
razed.No beggars stain the entryway, no hungry child is seen,
It’s faith reserved for shareholders, for the men who keep the sinners clean.
The preacher counts the tithe like numbers, faith as credit,
guilt as loan,He blesses every IPO, anoints the rich,
leaves poor alone.No seats for those with threadbare coats,
no hands to hold the tired and damned—Just business cards for saints,
a velvet choir, and justice neatly canned.Heaven’s gates are silent to the masses clawing at the glass,Redemption’s just a raffle ticket, salvation measured
by one’s class.“Compassion denied,” the spreadsheet reads,
“Admission by request,”And love’s a line of code they tweak,
to make the profit look its best.
They sip their praise from crystal flutes, their prayers are short,
their dinner long,
The only pain they know is indigestion,
not the cries of those who don’t belong.Each blessing is an invitation,
RSVP’d by tax returns,
And when the hungry die outside,
the holy boardroom barely turns.Let them buy their heaven’s real estate,
let them bid for holy ground,
But know the cost is always measured by the blood
that stains their wedding gowns.If that’s holy, if that’s faith,
let me take hell and call it home,
Where the poor are kings, the stories live, and no one dies alone.