It can't be easy

being the patron saint of sinners

but ****** all if you don't make it seem that way.



You look so good in blue,

as you serenely sway along the streets

touching the eyes of blind

just like Christ's own messenger.



The dirt and dust that coats us all

never seems to stick to you,

the disease that cripples us

you cast off with a twist of your

white hand.



You're silhouetted form

against the wall,

cast from an acrid fire

gave me some kind of hope.

A soft whisper of a word

that you produced from nowhere

made me feel like I could be you.



Wars seem to die between

your lips

and so could I.



You might as well have wings.



But where are you tonight?