The church across the way, Its doors bright red. With a chorus that vibrates my window, Demanding my attention: To look out in the world, And see the people that are real, The sounds that are heard, And an earth that is firm.

Though its members may lie, Their messages still strike, For those where the fire burns hot. Even with my cloak of blue, I don’t regret my own tune, But I must accept my biases And acknowledge what may well be true: That such a community may ground us, Whether it’s logic or nonsense.

And while I thank it for its tithings And all that’s wrought, I can’t help but laugh at its pompousness, Watching me through my window frame, With such a consistent and beautiful backdrop. All while its children are neglected, Keeping its hands behind the red doors like devilish sleeves. Coloring us nothing but thieves. Yet I can’t help but look away smiling, As we’ll surely sing this tune another day.