He finds himself at church on every Sunday, spectacles perched upon his nose as he peruses the instructional pamphlet he was given at the door. He's in his navy, button up, a pair of black denim jeans, his silver hair slicked back without a ball cap.
Listen: his voice, sings the word of God professed in faithful hymns. Watch: his eyes, settled on a the Pastor preaching from the pulpit, eyes gently tearing as he absentmindedly nods his head.
He can say all that he wants to us: that he honors the will of God, that he is saved and has reserved his one way ticket that'll send him up to heaven.
Those words are dandelion seeds floating off into the wind: they end up lost between the blades of grass that sway amidst the open, overgrown field.
Your thoughts are dipped in Coors Light: the first sip's quite refreshing, until you've reached the 13th can, and then its simply senseless rambling.
Those dreams are cloaked with guilt and fear: you've lived your life a sinner, and now that your ticker's ticking's getting louder, your in a rush to be forgiven.
Your faith is flavored by other's opinions: are your beliefs really your own, or are they your mothers, your fathers, your spouses, your neighbors?
They tussle back and forth, pummeling one another with blank excuses, clique sayings, quotes from scripture, and drunken mumbling.
Is a whole lot of ground being covered? Definitely.
Are tempers flaring? You bet your bottom dollar.
Do they really mean all that they are saying? The booze sure thinks so.
Are truthful points coming up in conversation? Sure.
Is process being made? Of course not.
I like your take on this.
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