Preaching is pretty petals in his head
But on the wind, it brings sickly spores.
Tendrils of mourning, they feast on the dead
And the living, they corrupt to their cores.
Rooted deep in the cool damp of his fears,
Like always in darkness, fungus grows.
Clutching the book, he weeps desperate tears
More spores forth in prayer, repetition's throes!
Thus, as a vessel, he is bursting forth
Spores so thick, you'll choke on the platitude.
They should be hidden in some mirth, but he's
Rooted deeply. He lacks joyous aptitude.
These beliefs make him a small, broken man
Just spreading his spores as far as he can!
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