The Black Cross
Silver and gold in a black Pellegrina cape
He moved like a bat flapping to escape
The thurible swinging as the smoke trailed out
His words floated across the congregation in a shout
The altar bedecked with cross and flowers
The priest played his part in the Church’s hour
Be-smocked and bedevilled his figure stands
A leader of the church that loyalty demands
These scenes of the church are so faithfully rendered
But truth has a way of being upended
And all I can see in my mind
Is a child hanging by a door knob so very unkind.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Copyright © Paul Warren | Year Posted 2020
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