His small shop existed in the shadow of a towering and timeless church,
they only met at night since all its members worked at day.

He had tried once to attend, but the wind and light had painted images in his head,
which he had crafted as glass artistry,
just happy to share them with all, not merely to make money,
more thrilled to pass on the joy since to him everyone was family.

The believers shunned his work, said God only spoke through this book,
if you heard Him any other way you would surely go insane.

So he left their communion with the wind and light growing more vivid in his head,
continued to let it make creations that made him feel God was so real.

Inside that assembly hall they remained strangers slowly their brains losing logic
due to the toxins in the whitewash on the walls.
The minister grew more demented until he was a screaming maniac,
still to the members it just meant he was more spiritual
and they kept up their meetings, no matter how bizarre or crazy they became.

Meanwhile the old artist sat in his little shop,
happily greeting everyone they chased away,
though the people in that building all said he was demonically depraved,
it never deterred him from the path that brought peace
those devoted scripture beating advocates were unable to find.