Your pure white robe
Falls flawless to the floor
Artfully concealing
The uneven legs
Of your purchased pedestal.
You stand tall and proud.
Sure no one will notice
The quivering prestige,
Feebly pieced together
By a weekly tithe and an hour in the pew.
An eerie glaze of grace and beauty
Hides the pointed finger.
Your practiced poise
And lines well-rehearsed
Masks the intended condescension.
But today, your repose stumbled.
Your stifled need to cut me deep
Ruptured a crack in your façade.
This time, I saw the dagger on your tounge.
Before it pierced my soul.
With a twisted apology
And a claim to be joking
You scrambled to mend your guise.
A wavering smile.
An empty hug.
Too late. I already saw.

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