Convolution of the Saints

Tie us, twist us with your words As your feeble hands wring Paper skin, wealth stirred, A puppet on a puppet on a string. Your carapace beneath us shed So we may yet see We’d been mislead. We see without the means to be. The saints, all regal, dress in white Their stage muddy, verdant grey Stands red against the sickly light Of evening as thoughts and words decay. The must of darkness will blanket us By wings of Satan labeled “Just”