Poisoned Advice

We kissed in the lounge. Then they drove me away
to learn how to preach and to learn how to pray.
At school of theology, where Christ was king
we students would study salvation, and sing.

I'd left on a mission, for Jesus, my Lord.
(A song sung one Sunday somehow touched a chord.)
It earned me no sympathy, only cruel scorn.
Her church-going folks were both peeved I'd been born.

Those parents, like Judas, betrayal they breathed.
They smiled to my face, but then secretly seethed.
For I loved their darling dear daughter too much.
They wanted to tell me, ‘Please, stay out of touch!’

When six terms I'd spent on that scriptural shore,
she rang me to say, ‘I can’t do this no more!’
She wept down the phone like a widow would weep,
or slave whose cruel master in chains he would keep.

Heartbroken and hopeless, from college, went home.
My mom, with cold comfort, asked, ‘why did you roam?’
One morning, in April, her dad tapped my door.
He’d come for her things – a most merciless chore!

Like limb amputated I lay on my bed.
Recalling the last words, to her I had said.
I’d pleaded, ‘You’re killing me,’ which cut no ice.
She shouldn’t have swallowed their poisoned advice.