by Chris

Upon my door step they stand
Selling religion to the masses
Through his face I see truth
Never could he lie
God's little messenger,

In the rain they stand
Behind the screen of my door
This is the wall they shall not pass
Their domain and mine, separate.

Do I believe, they ask
Had they known my views
My soul would they pray for
Just like the rest of them
Saints, racists, bigots, all
Accept only the pure and the righteous.

So I turn him away, blue eyes and all
March down my driveway, soldiers
Solicit their cause to my neighbor
And receive the same reaction.
Sorry, not interested.

November 11, 1995.
Chris is a 19-year-old student who enjoys writing short stories, poetry, and cycling.
General information: Jeff Walsh
Design and HTML: Jase Pittman-Wells
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