How will the vain
who love the noises of their own voices
gather the patience to listen?
Common sense has gone missing
They wield weapons
blunt and loud like a demagogue's growl
that defiles civil notions
Tools to toy with emotions
Glaring, with nostrils flaring,
at a divorce of nib and ink
My words, forming furiously -
Sharpen them more, rethink!
My words, they will cut deep -
They will pierce the thickest of skins
And find their way into dark hearts
to remind them what it is to bleed.
Feeling quite hateful.
Maybe it's me.
Or maybe it's the world.
Or maybe it's the world I see
on the news channel.
Good fortune to you, friends.
The pulpit stone was gray and warm,
beneath the priest of fire.
Each flaming word a dread alarm -
portentious and dire.
"Your ways must change!" he did extoll
with booming voice and spittle.
"Or hell will claim your timeless soul
to dance to Satan's Fiddle!"
Some people who, enfeared, did try
to mend their sinful ways.
With hope that cleaner souls would buy
more peace at End-of-Days.
But others left the place unmoved -
they stayed the way they were.
And though their ways did not improve,
to sin was still to err.
Then years did pass; the reverend died.
So too did all his people.
That pulpit where he stood with pride
lay crumbling 'neath the steeple.
Whatever thoughts of wrong or right
lie quiet like these motes in light.
No matter what the old man said,
your life's your life, and dead is dead.