Mr Preacher

Do not tell me– keep shut
when the cost of survival here
is  like 'haling helium in hell.
Don't tell me– close your trap–
heaven is a diaper, a thick towel
to wipe and dry sweaty frustrations...
Maybe you should retell me
you'll be like angels
with a new body whiter than snow
when you die. Don't!
Ask me if I believe your dogmas, oh preacher.
The road a front of the sanctuary
you call god's with a big G
is full and overflowing with
potholes, death traps, mosquito breeding centers and
beggars- god's children with empty pockets
who drop their last mites
with sorrow swollen faces
forced to smile against
your giant personal projects;
forced to smile by
the mirror message– god blesses
cheerful givers.
Why not say
the truth there is-
god is not man and needs no aid.
you tell us you are his oracle
and like god, his oracle must be rich
enough to fly jets nations
cannot afford in decades without huge debts
and live in gold coated mansions
on earth. But you forgot you said
earth too will pass away
with fire and brimstone.
Mr Preacher, I need a new sermon.