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Fragments of Frost and Fire - Episode 11 - Sanctuaries

My Sunday morning thoughts...

 “Sanctuaries”

They rise
like fortresses of fortune,
etched against the skyline—
stone, steel, glass
stacked in shimmering layers,
palaces built to outlast time itself.

Their gates never creak.
They glide open
only for those whose names
carry weight
like currency.

Inside,
the air hums low with comfort—
climate tuned precisely,
floors that shine like mirrors,
chandeliers spun from light itself,
hallways vast as canyons
lined with gold-leafed words
about generosity.

They dine on imported delicacies,
aged wines,
discussing strategies for change,
how best to guide
the unruly world beyond their walls.

Through rose-colored windows
they gaze out,
seeing only
what flatters them back—
poverty as a puzzle
to be solved
from afar,
desperation as distant noise,
a problem of policy,
never proximity.

They craft rules
for those outside—
codes, decrees, restrictions—
shaping streets
they’ve never walked,
drafting laws
with hands that have never touched
a callus or cold door handle.

And all the while,
these vast halls sit hollow
for days,
sometimes weeks—
silent but spotless,
waiting for the next grand gathering
while their keepers sleep
under other roofs,
far from here.

Meanwhile,
beneath their shadowed hedgerows
and beside their gilded bins,
others seek refuge—
pressed against cold stone walls,
curled on concrete walks
still warm from the day’s sun
or slick with freezing rain.

They nest in corners
where the wind cuts less sharply,
praying for shelter
from the burn of July,
the bite of January,
while above them
empty towers of light
stand guard
over nothing but themselves.

And when whispers arise,
they say
they give so much already.
They pledge fortunes—
but only to causes
that circle back
to them.

They’ve mastered
the old art of protection:
loopholed and exempt,
they owe nothing
to the common cause,
for all their wealth,
they say,
is already spoken for—
claimed by their mission
to serve
the “greater good.”

And it isn’t until you notice
the spires—
the subtle curve of arches,
the cross-like shapes
woven in the iron gates—
that you realize:

You weren’t looking
at the homes of billionaires.
These are the sanctuaries
where the poor are taught
to bow
before opulence
and call it
salvation.

Afterword

This poem was sparked by a post I saw on Threads by @muhoro_wa_mwenja, showing the image of an extravagant church towering over a crumbling neighborhood. The words that accompanied it struck like a bell:

"People have been brainwashed to worship while they starve. To tithe while children suffer. To build altars while classrooms rot."

That sentiment echoed something I’ve seen unfold again and again, in places like the U.S. and Canada, and around the world, where churches gleam like palaces in neighborhoods where poverty clings to every doorstep.

I wanted this poem to blur the lines at first—to make readers think we were looking at mansions or corporate towers, the usual emblems of unchecked wealth. But the twist is that this isn't about CEOs or tech billionaires. It's about those who preach charity while amassing fortunes, whose sanctuaries stand empty while the streets outside overflow with need.

This isn’t a condemnation of faith itself. It’s a confrontation with the ways power can hide behind piety—how easily we can be led to worship wealth disguised as virtue.

Sometimes, it isn’t the devil who wears the finest robes.

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