Ryfe Greenwood

Is it you or is it me that makes you not like me?

Whether it’s he or she, let’s just settle on thee., being the difference between you and me.

Upon a high and lofty perch, I once entered a church

Is it your heart or the hymn that makes you desirous to condemn?

They spoke for a spell of fire and friend. Due to the costume of their manner, I deduced it was only pretend.

Such love they spoke of did not descend, nor for the poor did it fend.

I was there in that pew. So how can – so how can you say you never knew!?

I was there in the pew. Yes, even next to you.

All this talk – all this balk

I was next to you, fighting for my existence in that pew.

Yet, I never expected, I never knew, I’d have to fight you too.

Dear churchgoer, make your perch lower.

Dear churchgoer, make your perch lower.

I have walked in your number, while sound doctrine was cast asunder.

I was so disheartened to learn even the churches deserve to burn.

If not found in religion or the pope, where o where can one find hope?

Not in the lake, or on a slope.

Not from the people under the expensive, well-groomed steeple.

It’s not conjecture that they love more their architecture.

Don’t dare ask me about their heart. Surely, i’d much rather smell a fart.

But I’m not like you in that pew.

I’ve had pain, I’ve had rain.

For survival I’ve had to call on that Name.

To you in that pew, your unfending stench offends in all of its grotesque pretend.

Formal dress –

Not needing to confess-

My heart has known for so long: what a hateful mess.

To me those churchgoers have nothing to say.

Once upon a fine, gentle day, a dame – one of their celebrated hags. Paid with callous, stuck up pride, a man who entered their building dressed in rags.

By her stony heart she was led; rather than serve she fled.

I am so filled with anguish –

I am filled with anguish –

How long do I have to see, that you – that you are utterly different from me?