Silence of Sodom

You are the silent sin of Sodom.
You and your polished granite stone.
You guide the strings of a marionette,
and believe you have no sins for which to atone.

I’m sitting here in this frigid cold,
looking in beyond the glass.
Where is this sword and shield,
to protect me from those who harass?

You see a squall outside your window.
I see a tranquil day.
You thwart an impending march forward,
keeping those unwanted at bay.

You fear the lurking advancement.
You don’t know what it could mean.
So you pull on your bulky riot gear,
and douse me in gasoline.

I gasp, I cough,
I grab my things to go.
You stop me in my tracks,
and bend down to say hello.

“Here’s a millstone, kid!
Wear it just like that.
I’ll take you down to the river,
and we’ll have a little chat.”

“I don’t care what people tell you,
or how much you believe it’s true.
No one is locked in that kind of life,
not when you sit in our pew.”

We made it to the edge before
I finally understood his surmise.
He’s guarding against revolution,
and I’m the one they despise.

This is the sin of Sodom.
Violence, gluttony, and pride.
Shutting out the poor and needy
needed to be decried.

So I turned, he lunged
both high and low.
And he drowned the girl
who dared say, “hello”.


2 thoughts on “Silence of Sodom

  1. “Let’s have a little chat.” You’ve captured here the way we sometimes try to sugar-coat our condemnation to the point that it sounds nice. But we’re not nearly as good at hiding our intentions as we think we are. Thanks for this powerful piece.

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