Theres a Baptist church frame
empty of hearts and joy
plenty of sky above
like  an empty pool of coy
its energy is vague
its people once were alive
tourniquet windpipes alive in the velvet hide
they sung the words of richness
danced on illness
war chains like rains
flooding brains for some mystical temptation.
They severely wanted a way not to die,
so much that life solidified.
And took them.
They thought they had colourful plans
of cloud street *** pits
hundred yard flower gardens
manicured by a tanned super freak
of atomic wisdom.
Till a sharp bit of plasma burned them to the floor.
It was a summers eve 1957.
The breeze let off a little steam and sent them straight to heaven.