Preacher man; ‘Unsaved’


light at the end of the tunnel

So this Preacher man he comes and tells me

I must accept to be saved and not perish

Faintly in my ear, him I hear

The rumble in the ‘Middle Belt’ out-shout him

Drown his doom-saying and cries of perdition

The rumble is not of guns or bombs

Rather, ‘tis the echoes and anguish of worms

Preacher drones unrelenting

Tune my ear deaf unconscious, ‘unrepenting’

My sunken eyes ever trail his gesticulate hands

Searching a saviour sign

His hands may as well hold naught

A black book; a wooden cross; a bell

A bell too loud

That I hate him more

I say, “Preacher man, go!”

But mine mouth do not the words form

The rumble is ever present now

The ‘Middle Belt’ aflames

“Your Saviour cannot save the hungry!”

It comes out a whoosh

Like trapped air in a burning house, released

Then I pass out


Jig-saw of complete thoughts. Sea of emotions, each tidal wave; spewing form. In this world of haves and have nuts, I chose the latter.

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