Preachers And Tramps And Forgetful Faiths Poem by gregory collins

There is no escape from God anywhere.
I don't care if your t-shirt is kicking the stalls beyond all recognition,
or if you invented silk, or the fear of sex.
I don't care if your the mother of a prostitute that recognizes fast,
or if your dreams and visions are cheering church on a Sunday morning.
I just don't even care if everyone in this world is close to becoming Buddha's,
or if i have boils and rashes on the beriberi of the arms and legs of my soul.
Because just wait until they count the dead with no forgiveness,
and find a way instead of an answer.
Kind of like first we were boys and girls obeying,
now we are just a sun that sinks low;
written in a charcoal sentence instead of the other.
Instead of searching our friends that must think we are acting.