The deacon of my ancestors
knocks at the door of my memory
asking me to consider the hunger of the soul
that we all feel
when we wake in the morning
the pangs of this glottal stop
clouds our aura, darkens the skies
with doubt.
The deacon of my ancestors
would rather sleep in.
Would gladly pass the time
at the beach while fanning the flies
from her trashy novel about nothing
than distribute another century of needs
to unwilling followers
facile in their beliefs
that they know best
how to serve the poor
their rations of humility.
Instead, the deacon of my ancestors
is heavy of heart
hanging her head in shame
for so many failures.
We are unworthy
of even her scorn.
We deserve the swift judgement of
an angry God
who loves us while he teaches
us a lesson.
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