They all smell.
Musty, like old sin.
Carpet stained
by unwashed feet.
The pulpit is worn.
Caked in brimstone,
burnt by lies.
The incense of
unanswered prayers
perfumes the air
while the parishoners wear
pious smiles and idolize
the ordinary man
in front of them.
2 comments:
I dropped something off at my stepdad's church today. They really all do smell the same.
The last stanza of this poem is excellent. From the smell of incense to the inflated church head, you really portray your message well here. I especially like the last two lines. Edward would be proud of this poem.
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