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Church.
An aching muscle hell, repetitive.
Merciless in its torturing shouts that shoots the pain of fear
through my hindered heart.


Church.
A gilded gateway
with rusted edges
worn out bibles
sunday dresses

Church.
Why should I be forced to believe?
God is only of what I conceive.
I dreamt of heaven as a child, so I had heaven in the form of ignorance.
I dream of hell now, live it, breathe it. Who can save me?
I do not believe in God, so God cannot come to my rescue.
In fact, fear is the only thing that keeps him alive for me.
Shrouds the lord, keeps him in my peripheral.

Church.
I open my chapped lips.
Lies spill out, like ashes from the urn.
Yes, mother. I believe in God.
She conceives that I am a good girl, so in her reality I am.
Yes, preacher, I am saved.
He moves on, kind yet blissfully unaware eyes searching for a soul more damned than mine.
If that were possible, perhaps I would aid him.
But now......
why give in when I can fall no further?