Birds chirp sins at the church,
Where temptations crawl under your skin,
And being unholy is a commodity.
Purity rarely exists,
As toxic, red swirls consume the skies,
That once were encircled by harmony.
Angels fly past in a hurry,
As their aurora darkens by the minute,
From the poisonous, dead glares,
Incriminating their holiness.
The birds are now deceased,
As their followers disappear in thin air,
Now the churches have faith again,
Where God is celebrated,
And the heavens are desired.