is it best to serve God on bicycles, long skirts and flat shoes
white crisp shirts and narrow black ties. bags strapped across
the shoulders of these masses. to speak to them makes my blood
boil. my tongue sharpen and my very resolution to end such
blather. i can point to the left and the right, to the south and
north - it would not matter if i held an infant. their resolve
remains the same - their God, they're the chosen ones. what
a query: how to resolve a long life battle of who belongs and
who does not and why. why with one word, it all goes wrong
when it should have gone right. i often ponder all religions
and how each hates slathered in promises no God ever made
