A church in town with the windows down

Where men punch out their every doubt

And writhe upon the floor or near the door

With posters for afternoon prayer

And pictures of the penitent fair.

I stood inside, filled with awe and pride

For something I had left in moments too bereft

To feel the presence or the present,

The one I’m told is quite unearned

And does not fail however we’ve turned.

I cannot but think I’m past the brink,

Wearing the robes of vice’s throne.

I’ve painted portraits with the ink of my forfeits

And happily forgotten time,

And finally forgiven mine.