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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