Sunday Morning Worship

divorce on a church lawn... a pathetic cliché.

Sunday Morning Worship


Faces fade to shadows,
never say a word.

Names are soon forgotten,
like whispers never heard.

The wise they are but stupid,
The young, they are the same.

You’re only ever someone,
once been stained by blame.

Tiny blades of church lawn.
Won’t be the last time you lie.

You say you still love mommy
and then you start to cry.

You don’t know any answers,
you never seem to care.

Even in the worst of times,
can’t find you anywhere.

The world it spins in circles
for all the dads and moms

four little legs crossed on
tiny blades of church lawn.