You are birthed every Sunday, to a book and two sticks-
Hewn from the same stump from which our idols are born.
White-winged sentinels linger at your bedpost in silent vigil, Oblivious
To the shrieks of raven-haired maids- our waxen vigilante.
Here, incense incenses you- A whiff means a trip to Purgatory and Back;
Too reminiscent of the ashes of crones still smoldering from ancient days.
The faithful is blest with unconditional love and forgiveness which nullifies all crime.
Unlike us, who live off faith like leeches, (trapped) in the race to do good.
Your father goes to heaven,
while we mourn, for a Man.
Truce?
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
No comments:
Post a Comment