Beneath the steeple, she professes grace,
Preaching God's love with a deceptive embrace.
A mask of piety veils a soul stained,
In the shadows, her true self remains.
The hymns she sings, a deceitful choir,
A siren's call, wrapped in false attire.
Behind the scripture, a sinister plot,
Her wicked heart, a twisted knot.
Beware the preacher with a tainted hymn,
A wolf in sheep's clothing, virtue dim.
In the temple's glow, her darkness gleams,
A fallen angel, lost in wicked dreams.
.................
"I have learned not to preach on one hand, and hurt people with the other..."
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The Writer and Her Daydreams
PoetryA prose and poetry collection where dreams transform into something real.
