Ghosts on the Cross

Poem

Mark Tulin
Sep 24 · 1 min read
Photo by Ciker-Free-Vector-Images on Pixabay

Stranger full of bags of trouble
sitting under the hot sun
with a rabid dog
whose itchy body
bleeds from scabies

We are all limited
by our humanness,
our stench,
and pestilence
The way we whine and cry
The lies and deceit
The theologians we follow
are downright despicable