The Call

The 16th of November, 1963. That dreaded night, when everything changed, nothing was ever the same
The 16th of November, 1963...nothing was ever the same
Drunken communion. This was his Friday night Mass. The broken preacher just as broken at home. His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass). Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone, the shepherd lost his way back. (He couldn’t find his way back!) He allowed false idols on thе throne (the flask), the flask with a goldеn calf
It started slow. One decision to next one. He wasn’t always this way. He loved his wife, their son, another on the way. A slippery slope, isolated alone. Satan’s kiss and whispers growing. “Just one, know one would have to know. Forbidden fruit, hanging low on the vine. After all, He turned water to wine.”
Drunken communion. This was his Friday night Mass. The broken preacher just as broken at home. His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass). Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone, the shepherd lost his way back. (He couldn’t find his way back!) He allowed false idols on the throne (the flask), the flask with a golden calf
He recalls his Father’s words. Etched in stone on his heart grown cold:
“Don’t get a hold of something that can get a hold of you.”
(He watched them...) Asleep, like trees, that swayed in lament. The hush of the limbs, as they break and they bend
The sagging moss hung, like thoughts in his head. The leaves on the ground, creating a bed, (like tears) that soaked their pillows. Yet he left like the wind, blowing through the weeping willows