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.


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