Of Sheep and Wolves

He poses awkwardly
Spitting mediocrity
I’m not sure
Even he believes.
But he writes.
Poetry for Jesus.
Takes it to the slams,
So he can tell his friends,
I preached the Son of Man.

And we see right through.
Poorly performed
Like a sheep
In wolves clothing.


What strange wool you have.

His words
Come not from his heart.
A mockery
Of the pain in this art.
Counterfeit mimicry
Widening the divide
Between us and him.

And I

Take it personally

I have sipped blood from the cup.
Devoured holy flesh.
Believed in divinity.
Spent nights
Crying out
To a sacred trinity
Who is neither
Or I.

I’ve bloodied devils
With splinters from the cross
Still embedded in my bones
From fist fights
With God.

And this man
Tells you the gift is free.

Young man.
Sit down.
This gift
Will cost us everything.

And I’ll shit on your rainbows.
Piss on your parade.
Son, you don’t belong here.
You’ve come only to twist the blade.

It’s not that we’ve been hurt by God,
More like we’ve been hurt by you.
Upon the wounded
With promises of a light yoke,
Heavy handed chains
And clasping irons
Taking us to the furnace
Exposing us to the fires.

Leave me to my cup.
And leave me to the flesh.
Step aside.
And I will show you
What you can never tell.
For God only promised
One thing –
To see us through this hell.

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