Ye Serpents

Dear Holy-Rolly-Poley,

 

my soul is not the lively ball of sugary light

you explained in your fancy dissertation;

it’s truly just a septic tank to keep the rotten s**t

that you call Wisdom from contaminating

the rest of my internal necropolis.

 

my heart is not the magical pump you described.

it does not constantly  refill me with warmth and peace;

it’s a stony eyed oracle guarding the front porch

with a double-barrel shotgun pointed into the philosophical fog,

begging for your rabid gospel to emerge.

 

my mind is not the creamy center

of some mystical lollipop,

it’s a giant mirror, so that monsters

who believe they’re angels

can see themselves as plainly

as I have seen you.

 

look hard

into your own shifty eyes,

and see why pulpits

make for the best firewood.

 

Author's Note

Matthew 23:33 - Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?