Convolution of the Saints
Tie us, twist us with your words
As your feeble hands wring
Paper skin, wealth stirred,
A puppet on a puppet on a string.
Your carapace beneath us shed
So we may yet see
We’d been mislead.
We see without the means to be.
The saints, all regal, dress in white
Their stage muddy, verdant grey
Stands red against the sickly light
Of evening as thoughts and words decay.
The must of darkness will blanket us
By wings of Satan labeled “Just”
Copyright © Andrew Travis | Year Posted 2020