Skies grey,
Chilled rain.
Water reflects lamplight on the street, and the church of Saint Simon V.
“Let me tell you about my god,” begged the poor man.
“I don’t have time for your judgment! Silly rules and lazy love,” rebutted the richman.
“No Sir,” replied the poor man, “I preach truth and understanding. I’ll show you the promised land!”

The preacher.
Atoned.
Sins.

Eyes hollow,
Heartbreaking pain.
The church bell cries, “Noon!” and the choir sings a hymn.
“Alright, you’ve showed me your god, let me tell you about my God,” the richman demanded.
“But who else has saved us from the cold purple mist and days of mourning?” asked the poor man.
“I know a God who can do anything, and his face is on the dollar bill!” declared the richman.

The reverend.
Opened.
Caskets.

Freezing nights,
A child born lame.
Thunder crackled over the hilltops, and wiped the brow of all the trees.
“Let me show you the hope that I’ve found,” begged the poor man, he knew love could not be wrong.
“Ill buy my way to heaven along with 11 angel choirs playing checkers and dice!” Exclaimed the richman.
“You’ll never get back, your an old man blind, and sight is the answer.”

The poorman.
Was.
Right.

The choir.
Sang.
Silence.

The richman.
Died.
Cancer.