After the preaching is

Done-finished

picking at the scabs

Of our guilt,

At week's end / day of rest;

When we almost had it

Bygone

Forgotten

From our minds...

           It's a kinder kin to amnesia

A softer fog of fugue,

A healing art of our brain farts,

Not soaking in shame's

Diminishment

Or stewing in self helps

"Deliver us!"      bow down genuflect

But then again

Here we are together to gather

Uncomplainingly

Complacently listening

Absorbing every lash

Of the metaphorical whip,

To be guided back to good

Such sermons for the flawed

humans that we know

We are -- unworthy...

But willingly we suffer

The word.

Oh how to be just like

The lamb...


So afterwards, when after we've been

Emotionally & verbally punctured

Full of hollow

We are holes unworthy

Of being

Made whole...

Or so, we've been told

"It is written."


So now then let us meet for

homily

After King James harangues us

His version of fellowship,

Let us have verbal

******* with the word.

(Worship)

Perhaps over supping

Or during beer & NFL

Or some blood

Sport

Non-emasculating,

Reminding us how

Weekends roar

And Life is

Worth more

Than the inner wars

We are ourselves

Fighting.

After the sermon,  

Let's have true verbal

*******...

(Without a shred of guilt.)