The Saints

The saints leave
Prayers for worn fingers,
On heaven’s doorstep
And dear lord, do they strain
Themselves into believing
In comforts like the seasons-
The hymn of the tides
And the blanketing of the sky,
But little by little
You have nothing left,
Of pretty things
And strangleholds of the world-
Slipping away into an abyss,
And dear lord, do they live
For the sake of living-
Why else do you think,
Tormented breaths are allowed
To be breathed into the air-
For the sole purpose of knowing
That a life isn’t theirs to take.

Sapphire Red

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