An Ancient Wrong

Self Talk

If I were a preacher ordained to preach,

I would sing as an angel,

In sinners ears.

Though my lips are numb,

I stand guilty,

Of thoughts of sin.

There are people In our congregation,

With their feet in the grave.

The grave is a fine and private place,

Where the rainbow sheds its glory

And the night kisses breezes,

In the moonlight.


A dizzy brain wobbles when it walks,

A heart glaced with pride,

Pauses to breathe between lies.

Best for them to hide,

Their skeletons in the grave.

It's like correcting an ancient wrong.

A dreary wrong of hunger,

Not of the belly kind,

But of pride and wealth and lust.

Comments

No comments yet.

    Sign in or sign up and post using a HubPages Network account.

    0 of 8192 characters used
    Post Comment

    No HTML is allowed in comments, but URLs will be hyperlinked. Comments are not for promoting your articles or other sites.


    Click to Rate This Article
    working