ALL SAINTS

The aim is less

The goal is more

When we transgress

We sin once more

Compiling mess

A fever stress.

My heart a door

Welcome, I implore.

 

Forgive the mess

I’ll close the door.

 

Return never less

To the ideal I bore,

But what fore?

This fear I abhor

Back and forth chess

Emotional tennis.

 

No sense to bless what congress ceases to caress

Because all saints are cracked and incomplete

And I to protect from the terror of me.

 

I pray your higher hopes

Escape my lower slopes.

 

©PseudoBop 2017 All rights reserved.

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