Beware

those men of the cloth,

their faces pinched

from tasting only the sour they see in their sinful world,

their Bibles clutched in their clawed grip

like cold, stone weapons…

Beware

the churchy lady

sitting prim in her pew,

her prayer book squats in her lap

guarding her most holy place,

she, never to know the warm delight

for all her stolid “No’s!”.

Beware them

for they suck-out life like marrow

and spew it onto the ashen ground.

They flee from hope,

quoting judgment, ignoring joy.

Never knowing the blessings

that might have been bestowed.

Oh! How brittle and dry their world

where never comes the promised showers,

only ever the hot, wind-blown-sand,

stinging their eyes,

bitter in their mouths.

Cleave not unto them!

Only beware.