Monday, May 7, 2012

His face was not noble
nor angelic
and it did not look like it had lingered longer
under the crafting hand of God
than any other
but it could, in the right lighting,
pass for a saint

a solemn one who sulked handsomely in the dark velvet
of a 17th century portrait
or a saint who
had been melted and fragmented into a stained glass window
which had its own corner in a quiet cathedral
and seemed to contemplate the organ music with such intensity
that the sunlight straining through his glass body
blared like accompanying trumpets,
bronze and thick.

Or maybe the kind of a saint
who on a cold April evening shirked his holy duites
and took a walk through the thinning night
past the house of the girl he half hoped would be awake to meet him
and half whistling a song of spiritual doubt.


  1. Gave me the chills! Love you! This is soooo beautiful. I love reading both ends, if ya know what I mean! :)

  2. I read this when I'm sad, and feel hope.