Preacher

The preacher mounts the pulpit, wipes his brow;

He starts with an amusing anecdote;

Then shortly with a dancer's practised steps

He heads for hell, and shyly clears his throat.

With sweeping gaze and gaining confidence

He tells them they're all damned and dead inside.

Augustine watches, proud, smiling in stone;

The sinners stare: there is no place to hide.

Outside the violent air cuts through the skin

As if to catch a glimpse of soul within.

The leaves are rustling, murmuring dissent;

Yet winds of guilt rush them off to repent.

The preacher burns with triumph to his core

He knows he's left them weaker than before.