Stained Glass Predictions

Conflict Poem about a quintissential topic. Enjoy (:

 “I have a bone to pick with you”, declared the priest

At the start of today’s sermon. He looked at the devoted followers

Gathered within an amphitheater of gold crosses; stained glass predictions,

 and thought

Of God, surprising himself. Selfishness wasn’t dangerous

In the position of a priest, simply because he used the pope as a reference.

The faces stared, eyes half empty, mouths evaporating the stench of

Eucharist, they were confused, he decided.

He directed his hands toward the first row, and declared a disturbance

Toward “The beholder of the church”, the only reason they were

Squished together on splintered wood seats, the only way they

Would agree to kneel against pathetically cushioned bars.

The audience muffles and clamors, still making sure

Their bibles stayed put between their palms.

“It is days like these we all must question,

The existence of him, the worth of it.”

The adults all but yelled in upmost confusion,

 Children just snap their eyes back into their brains,

The girls tuck the excess pantyhose into their barely-there heels,

The boys fidget with their clip on ties.

They all stare. Some divert their eyes to the steeple,

Or the fountain of holy water sitting just feet away.

The priest looks on and continues, never taking his eyes off

the sea of jumbled faces. His silence, His stoicness

standing at the alter spoke for him, spoke to God.

With a smirk of an insane scientist, proclaiming

The errors of everyone’s ways. He sits

On his metaphoric- It’s real in his opinion; he needs to believe it exists-

Pedestal and cues for the children in white robes with their hair pulled

Or slicked back into ponytails and overdone ‘dos, plain black shoes,

Their “normal” clothes sticking from under the robe’s skirt.

They carry wire baskets, and go up and down, row to row,

Asking the people to give more than their presence to God,

To empty their wallets for him. He deserved it didn’t he?

They collect the daily earnings from the pretentious

Suckers scratching their asses, rolling themselves over,

Emptying their inner jacket pockets

With bouts of unsure.

“As long as it goes to God..”

He sneers, as if the money were destined

To be his.  It was.