The Preacher Without a Pulpit

I'm a preacher without a pulpit.
I am one of few.
I talk and I talk,
but no matter what I say,
I am still the same sinner as You.

But STOP.

Close your eyes and listen.
Do you hear that?

The subtle screaming of silence
tearing the seams of your ears.
Causing sanity to drip down your neck 
and stain your shirt. 

My congregation of dust doesn't speak much.
The bones that line the benches
collect the memories of my voice. 
Every sermon.
Every slur.
Every early morning rant.
They are all just another lesson about her.

My sermon continues.
A long speech made of words.
Each word of letters.
Each letter floats off the page
till her name is all that is heard.

Someday she'll walk in my church.
Give life to the bones and shake the dust.
Rip my paper and tear my pride.
All of my work.
           Lessons of love, hate, and lust.

Gone.

There will by no more lessons to teach.




Everything god promised is in her eyes.

The preacher who preached.
          No meter, some rhymes.
In the end, he'll find the truth in his
          Lies.