In Prophetic Fashion

Despair is not my style. I don't wear it well,
and it clashes with my hope-toned skin. But.

But.

Here I am, staring down a whole wardrobe
of sackcloth and ashes. I just want to wail
in the streets, moan, mourn all we've lost,
all we've yet to lose, and soon. How has it
come to this? By what strange sorcery did
we trade all the beauty and holiness of the
world for thirty pieces of silver? It's a con,
all of it, all that comfort and convenience,
all that ease and repose. False gods, all of
them. We are all idolaters now, all sinners
in the hands of an angry God, breakers of
the covenant of goodness, crude foulers of
the fine work of the Divine Hand, faithless.
Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!