The Playground

Somewhere a man, a rough and brawling man
lays in the gutter where you left him
choking on the bile in your heart.

He lays there waiting, wondering,
"Where are the saints?" he whispers into the rain.

Indeed, I echo, where are the saints
to feed
to clothe
to befriend
to visit
to comfort
these tossed by the Prince of the World?

They, those title-mongering priests, drown
in a bottle of something meant for sinners.
They burn in their country chalets
with passions not for the Lord.
They stoke hedonistic temptations
that threaten to self-destruct.

*******************

Religion, Oh God! Where are you in this occult?
They've warped your words and stricken your truths,
melded them into hypocrisy.

Strangling the freedom you bestowed,
they pontificate religious fervor.

Holier than thou, instead of
Holiest art Thou is the vestment
of that chapel.

*******************

Down this shabby street,
Down and down into a rut,
Mired in self-loathing,
You drove the man whispering into the rain.

"Where are your saints now?"
that Prince spits in his ear.
He used to be one of them
until they betrayed him.

Crippled by fear, you ministers
whine and coddle perceived offenses.
Withholding your gifts
from those with the least,
You save another sinner from Heaven.