The Saint is back yet once again,
to pick upon your skin.
Infectiously in his own way,
you allowed it to come in.
While some they sleep unknowingly,
their inner children play.
In the darkest parts of each a word,
they stutter so to stay.
He finds such joy misguiding those,
who've never found their way.
While some they sleep unknowingly,
yet seek what he might say.
Shall it be a brutal truth,
a penny paid for sweet?
Or...
A fictional psalm of joy,
a lie for which to keep?
He wont say,
don't beg to ask,
find joy for what hes given.
Some they sleep unknowingly,
enjoy...
The Saint has written.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-saint-has-written/
