I’m from the city:
Where angels don’t descend to help,
They’re in the corners getting higher.
No preaching, nor evangelism could convince
Heaven will not give them a chance and
Heaven is not rolled up in a piece of paper.
Because when in a room stories down,
Grace is lit on one end
Inhaled from the other,
As they mount five stories, no ladder
Didn’t care that the lungs sing,
So I don’t advise praying.
At least, not to the ones ascending
Heaven sends help upon summons
But, your best bet is to face your own demons.