Sunday morning hanging

 by a thread,

like some great black rock

 above my head.

Nine o’clock overflowing pews,

  the ooze of the good book

melting over you.

   From the pulpit

 comes the preacher man.

Eyes ablaze, boney finger

  pointing your way,

sending you to a early grave,

  his measured steps

searching for someplace to rest.

Fire and brimstone, smoldering touch,

 hotter that Hades in the small

      southern church.

Those flames that I cannot feel,

    the flicker of the

   white hot embers,

    scorching my soul.

His voice way past it’s range

commanding in the name of;

      Peter and James,

as a thousand Amen’s

     fill the room.

Red robed screamers, busting at the

           seams ,start a

           lazy sway,

Old rouged cross, wood and

human flesh, pierced with nails

      then hung in that

           awful way.

A life un-extinguished rises

   from the grave.

Even the hot southern wind

breaths the passion of this day.

         And the

Black rock is rolled away.