Nonbelievers

Little church in the middle of nowhere, empty car in the parking lot. Hundreds of empty souls and their memories have wandered in between halls and pews; teeth gnashing lies, angry hands signing love while simultaneously forcing their words down your throat like a medicine syringe to an infant but what have you done to be deemed sick, nonbeliever? The trees are pink and the house is purple and when you put them together the sky turns lilac The butterflies in the bushes don’t flutter into my hands anymore and they say it’s because I have not found god Little girls in purple houses are losing their innocence and the pink trees are losing their appeal because demand out runs supply and, couldn’t we say the same for faith? What haven’t we done to be deemed as sick, believer?