Know One to Preach


My vacant village…more vacant than before

Tattered, elicit affairs lay at St. Gabriel’s altar

All the residents have wrapped up testaments into a crumpled yellowed newspaper, and gone home

Golden saviors, cloaked and free of fear, are unabated…akin to flea market trinkets…nothing but grab bags of unidentified…barren bones

Diamond crusted good Samaritans with chips on their robes seem to walk the same streets as forgotten servants. Each and everyone…lost from their thrones.

Not one left to preach

Know one to preach

No one left to dictate the streets that are lone.

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