Sermon Poem by Lewis Eron

Preaching is what is true after
All the boring preachers fail
To catch a wind, a breath - The tale
Continues, plots break, metaphors splinter
Interpretive stones mill words into tinder
Ancient texts - powder fine enough to inhale
Deeply into dream-deprived frail
Pious lungs, chilled by the soul's winter
A still breath of comfort from one's master
To be lost until three days in a whale
Leaves no escape but to swim, row or sail
Searching in depths not covered by water
For truth present, passing and found
In words that dance and whirl around

May 2018