We wallow in bloody thundering judgement.
We are addicted to condemnation.
We love to take offense.
Like wolves we howl to the silvery moon.
We hunt down prey with slavering eyes
Slice open jugulars, tear out viscera,
Gorge on livers.
We are happy at the slaughterhouse,
Joyful as the blood drips from our lips.
We are justified. We hunker down with pride.
We feast on lights. Then, sated, we lounge,
Maculate mesentery hanging from our jaws.
And slowly with silent serpentine subtlety
We shifts to they and the cankered finger
Lifts to point outwardly.
Long years ago, immured in Fernay,
Sipping his blood red wine,
And hearing echoes of the still small voice,
Arouet laughs, smiles, shakes his head and
Declares he knows
The only hypocrites are those
Who use the word exclusively of others.