The blind mans search

The door, the auditorium with the sits and when it's time, the people and the work. I stand here looking up at this white ceiling molded in sinister fire. The dove forever descends. Since I came here, the dove never signified it's divinity.
The huge speakers never give out a sound, but the congregation waves their head like they hear anything. The pastor is tired, he has tried all they taught him at the bible school, now he looks at the congregation and plans a way out for himself... alone. He says "what holds them bound, dwells with them... The witches may just be sitting here with me..." He looks at the ordained people sitting with him as they look to the altar and some to the congregation. He can only trust him self.
The air is never right, fake smiles of people  ladened with loads you can't imagine. This place makes worship an ordeal, and being a gate keeper in the sanctuary a grave mistake. I imagine the clouds lead above their head. Where is salvation? wanting a miracle is like fiction, and telling them your dream is like selling fire in hell. Deaf mans silence, a blind mans search.
There are sinners in the darkness who wear white clothes on Sundays.