The missionary impulse frankly leaves me unimpressed.
It can turn a civil person into something of a pest
who is capable of hounding friend and colleague, host and guest
to believe what they cannot, against their will, at his behest,
because it's his truth, and therefore, the one-not just the best-
and every thought that counters it a sin to be confessed.

How does it feel to be the target of a man who's creed-obsessed
and works for your salvation with inquisitorial zest,
because he knows his kind is tasked with saving all the rest?
Like boiling oil; like hair on fire; like serpents in the nest;
like hornets in your underwear; like scorpions in your breast;
like monorhyme; like everything the opposite of blessed.