Poem
Open Door

An open door, yet locked to me,
Listens to the cares of the warden to be.
Red and blue shafts of light
Spill upon the regimented chairs.
Carpets and curtains, pristine, wait,
As the world passes by unawares.
The old organist fights the good fight,
While the congregation blankly stares,
Miming songs from another century.
Worship murdered in four part harmony.
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Christian Poet This is a case of if the cap fits.