Masked Saints

Deep in the dark they sneak
They are in masks
Armed with objects of crime
Depriving others of their belongings
Shedding innocent blood with their hands
Sacrificing to the unknown
Calling out words with no meaning
Burning cilia in the nostrils
Seeking wealth and power from evil sources
Their hearts and hands are unclean
Their minds not brighter than black
They have been on the pulpit before the night
Spilling out motivations on the congregation
With their cunning and sharp tongues
Like two edged swords
Cutting through bottles of honey
And pouring them out to their people
They make you believe and like them
They wear suits and hold briefcases
They walk in light as if newly descended angels
Here they are in the night
Dressed in straight gowns; red and black
With scarves tied around their heads
Carrying pots and calabash filled with unclean river
Holding lamps to find their path
They increase in number because they supposedly offer good things that do not last
The Sun is high, they're in no masks and they're in white
They're on the pulpit, appearing so holy before you
Praising their maker above
But I tell you
Wait to find them when the sun is no more