Saints

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


We are, aren't we?



No.

Submitted: January 29, 2018

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Submitted: January 29, 2018

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A A A


Saints

Where are they, beyond the pale?

The heart is a stamp, sent with express mail

Eyes covered by blinds, ‘cause the mind is frail

Wonder what it’s like, to try and never fail…

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To the highest bidder, does that love go.

But does that love grow?

Is is sent with a red bow?

Did it stop you from getting low?

And I’m still my worst foe?

So…

Read about the preacher in the papers,

Who hung his enemies, and loved thy neighbors,

Sat back, and let the common man do the labor.

But still claimed that these people needed a savior.

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A beacon that boasts of its brightness,

But shines no light during a crisis.

Has the golden touch, just like Midas,

But an ego so big it's practically priceless.

 

So enlighten me, how someone so righteous,

Could also be so spineless?

And so lifeless,

A presence that spreads like a virus.

Shines to the iris,

But the cause of moral blindness.

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The love of all others,

And yet in those cheeks lie no color.

 

Heart like an ocean,

But what good is something that’s frozen?

 

The good word is selfless,

Yet to say much of someone so reckless?

 

Liar.

 


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