A Saint

Sometimes I can feel him,
hear his voice inside my head.
A saint I never mentioned;
a saint forever dead.
But I hear his songs
sung sweetly through
a sadness and a thickening soot,
digging himself out of an unspoken rut.
Working through some late night terror
with beauty and matchless grace.
Dark demons only he saw,
though thousands heard,
left him hungry and raw
and inevitably alone.
Everyone is a fucking pro,
but they let you walk around with a head so low.
He knew it better than most
and with a whisper from his ghost,
I heard a hundred sorry songs
of so many regretted wrongs.
We hear every word
and hum every tune.
Don't worry, dear balladeer,
you will not be forgetten soon.

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Meh. I already wrote this poem and it was better the first time, but it just keeps coming up.






"Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they've known." Elliott Smith St. Ides Heaven

"We look to flashes of sky, the windows of time, the crust of our dreams. But really we wait, only to find the crest of our sea. And, we ride when we find our wave. Take us to the coast, carry us home." Band Marino Dear Balladeer