"The Wages of Sin is Death"
The penitent priest doth spiel.
Blinding virtue directing fear
To those who seek redemption.

The echo of a choir can still be heard
Resonant sounds bounce off stone statues.
The watchful believer eyes skeptics in the crowd
His faith disallowing his own violent urges.

I look around and see these things.
The baby who cries from inherited sin.
I look around and hear their silence.
Attentions focused on their divine speaker.

The quiet is broken by a ringing phone.
The man tries in earnest to restrain it's sound.
I look around and feel their eyes
Condemning him in this house of God.

The priest speaks wisdom through monotony
Children snore, their parents scold.
The basket, like a beggar, feeds off guilty souls.
Everyone must earn a living.

The sermon is slowly coming to a close.
Anxious members gather items in a hurry.
The priest's final words strike nerves of the devoted
His motives known only to the one above.

I leave this house with a heavy heart
My thoughts on what the priest had said:
"Imminent destruction and painful resolution."
My path to forgiveness is still unclear.