Rock Church
Winter wanes
into a tepid time
more reminiscent of autumn eves
than stone cold sonnets
composed with frost blanketing
our floor.
Priest ponder perchance
"This is our reward
for resisting the sins
that pull at our drawstrings,
to warm our blustering days."
Winter wanes
as satan sings
and priest's pleasures proliferate,
while heaven's gate
swings,
uncared for.
Bended knees lead not to prayers
but unnatural acts.
The people scream "We want the facts!"
and priests pray for their own souls
from death row.
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