The pulpit is too close to heaven to reach the people below.
Creased, recessed lines
articulate from within your polyester pulpit;
as your sallow, puffy flesh,
muddled without thought rings out.
Hold your black testament high,
for the common eye.
Your fist thrusting beliefs of deliverance
do not prick the deaf ears.
Ironed, starched fabric
articulate from the robed pulpit;
do not stir the rumpled, malodorous rags
muddied by their unceasing unrest.
Your dais still rises
to the multi-colored clouds.
as you don your showy shrouds,
unhesitant; pleas to the masses
too distant to touch, and
your beliefs of deliverance
fall on deaf ears.