The Mall Poem by DM W

Rabid shoppers don't seem perturbed
By the mall's humid microwaved air.
In this cathedral of consumption
The new gods are glossy items;
Cut price souvenirs not ancient relics.
The glassy eyed worshippers here,
Kneel before miracles of mass production;
Genuflect before inflated jeweled junk.
These acolytes are vaguely connected
By a shared fetish for branded idols.
They do not come here to converse
Or communicate soul to soul
For this is the way of the world now.
There's no place for obscure mysteries;
Only the allure of desirable objects;
Only deluxe rituals of ornamental order
Can assuage the perennial, mortal despair.
Yet no one is to be redeemed it seems,
Although this curious, secular congregation,
Is bathed in a halo of cool, artificial light.