I think I’m a little tired of jaded.
And entirely sick of hypocrisy.
The fervour that carries bonneted popinjays
Into the packed pews lining churches
Lined up down the street.
This pastor and that,
Selling lies to his flock
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Preaching goodness between sharpened teeth.
Shaving and chiselling the good book
Into a downward-pointing, sharpened spear,
A weapon to hunt down the pesky humans swarming underfoot.
Under his cassock and his vestments and sharp, tailored suit
Lies a furred menace with claws outstretched.
On that book he fashions a temple that worships
Louboutins and Cartier and bodycon dresses.
It is a con.
The worst of cons.
That leads a good man to become a bad one
With one eye on his wife and the other trained behind
On the behind of the PYT in the row in front.
Disillusionment is bitter.
Cold and sharp.
It can twist a smiling face into the very image of evil.
No, I won’t join them,
I won’t fight them.
I may just fold myself into a flying tin can
And sail away to some place beyond the clouds.