Your Gospel Poem by cassidy Lovato

You preach with a book in your hand,
chapter and verse spilling from your mouth
like a shield
you think makes you holy.

But I've seen your gospel
it isn't written in red letters,
it's soaked in red wine.
It slurs when it speaks.
It curses behind closed doors.
It turns neighbors into enemies
and love into a weapon.

You quote commandments
while breaking them in the same breath.
You call others unworthy
while rotting in your own sins.
You talk about grace
but never give it.
You talk about truth
but twist it until it serves you.
You talk about love
but ration it like water in a drought.

You are the kind of man
who warns against the darkness
while keeping a candle
locked in your own chest.

I remember the belt buckle.
The sting of lessons
that never came from kindness.
The names you gave people
you were supposed to care for.
The hate you wrapped in casual jokes,
the poison you called wisdom.

Now, I am gone from your house.
I breathe air you cannot taint.
I have learned
that God is not in your voice,
not in your rage,
not in your empty prayers.

The scripture you hide behind
was never meant to be a mask.
It was meant to be a mirror.
And if you ever looked into it,
you'd see what I see
a man more devoted to his pride
than his people.

You could have been a shepherd.
Instead, you were a storm.
And I have walked out of the rain
for good.