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Midnight Poetry

It is my belief that good poetry is not written past midnight. Here is my proof. Still, if you're not sleeping...

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Wullygumping His Way to the Pulpit

Wullygumping his way to the pulpit,

        he swabbed the surface with Cloroxian hope.

                He removed his mask for clarity,

                but forgot his bigotrollian blinders.

Vouyering his orbital sweep he bemused, how much longer?

        A tired tirade of testimony.

        The shadowy whisp of the ghost

                and descendency of a glorious son.

Surrounded by patriarchal promise,

        but mired in guilt, and suffering, and shame,

                - all judgy and monodirectional.

 

What of the weak and forlorn?

        Heartbroken sinners

                all slaggy and introspective

The only communal concern

        to realign

        to embrace the horde of professed perfecters?

 

 

Judged and islandias.

        Saddened by soliloquies of scripture.

 

The celestial path is not the same as the one I’m on,

        Could it ever be?

                Else heaven

                        and earth

                                would touch.

 

To be true to the ideal?

        Or live in my now?

                Why must one choose?

                        How?

 

Wullygumping his way to the cooling pew, he swabbed his soul with Cloroxian hope…

        and, worn thin of perplexing paradigms,

        inhaled a burdensome breath of the surrounding fates,

                and closed his eyes.

​

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