I Used To Be a Preacher

I used to be a preacher. That life has vanished, along with all the others. My name? You can see it spelt in innocence nailed to the display wall, in god-inspired half-written sermons condemned to that corner where a squeaky hinge meets my worship hall's door. I have shook hands with too many hypocrites; heard too many demented screams echoing down the corridor. At twelve-oh-five the exits crack open and I feel you spilling out of my hall to splatter and disperse like fresh milk on the floor. It's twelve-fifteen and I am back at my desk reading Ecclesiastes while Bono sings soothingly to nobody in particular; nobody at all.