© Ophelia S. Lewis 2021
The formulation of murder,
To watch anyone; even your wife,
Passed out, helpless;
But you call an ambulance
Fifty slow minutes later.
This preacher-man’s soul
Is a dark place,
Who punishes in times of sorrow?
You denied her children
Access of any kind,
Or a closure of grief.
Was it for donation money?
Was it for her earthly things?
Was it because of envy?
Or, the spotlight you crave?
Cunningly using the law of kinship,
You, preacher-man, man of NO cloth,
An Old Oscar performer,
A manslayer you are.
Guilty! By withholding help,
Guilty! For your untimely 911 call,
You lack human kindness, preacher-man.
Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
Formulation of murder.
Keep hiding behind your holy title,
Keep hiding behind your age,
Keep hiding your skill to deceive,
But, you cannot hide
Even behind God’s back.
Hide, preacher-man, your evidence,
Hide your deeds in poisonous lies,
Hide your guilt behind old age,
But, you can never hide from God.
This poem was written during the most painful time in my life; while we mourn our Beloved Jeanette’s passing, we were attacked in spiritual warfare with Gog, the 94-yr-old godless pastor she was married to for 27 years. One day, the world will know.