My body is a temple

Anyone may walk

Through my propylaia

Who needs to pray.

I lay brick upon brick

On top of my

Concaving shoulders:

Being their Atlas.

My columns bear

The weight of their troubles;

I am crumbling

But I still stand.

 

My body is a temple.

I am stagnant.

I serve others

But receive nothing

In return.

Not because it

Isn’t offered

But because I

Am my own Caryatids.

 

My body is a temple.

I am given thanks

But sometimes taken

For granted.

Everyone’s names

Have been carved

Into my skin:

A permanent reminder

Of who I buttressed.

No stone quite fits

The piece of me they removed.

 

My body is a temple.

Extroversion is mixed

In my mortar.

Human interaction is

What holds me together.

 

My body is a temple.

I am ever-changing

My presence in their life

My cellas hold unique meanings

to each individual.

 

My body is a temple.

Though vandalized,

Every mark left behind

On my frieze tells a story

and helps me grow.

My own experiences

Improve my ability to aid.

 

My body is a temple

And I feel blessed everyday.