The preacher preaches faith,

Without a step-by-step approach.

I ask a question, the response is a fumble.

There is no conviction in those eyes,

The vision, is like a veil of gauze.

Does nobody see the broken mirror?

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.

 

I step away.

Answers are too buried in their politics;

so where do we go from here?

The expectation is greatness, with no design in mind.

Without a coach, I am my own leader;

begrudged, I dredge the earth on which I stand.

I am hollowed out,

Questions must serve as substance.

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.

 

Seedling ideas drop into the crux.

Of nothing, answers grow

for me, of me.

The preacher’s voice stumbles in the debris

of the cracked mirror.

I break it. I see the pieces fall.

 

A village is only as good as its preacher.