Like the proverbial
She sits
Hateful as one
With a silly sardonic smile
She makes saints cuss
She has stained the glass
Of every window
Into my soul
Brimful and doubting
Yet quietly sure
I was doing right
I am no saint
I am a saint
He loves me
He loves me not
The age-old riddle
In quiet afternoons
The church is musty
Half-sung hallelujahs
Echo in the rafters;
Angel voices
Only heard
By those with ears
Punisher
Sh
You are
Punier
Than I ever realised
And I do not accept
Your damnation
Author
thinkspeakrun@gmail.com