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Chris Connelly

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Chris Connelly

Ghost of a Saint

Life out of breath,
living out the filth I have to face.
A loveless grin and the sweetest taste.

The distance is drained
to where our lowly necks meet,
the urge is impassive
as shadows lay framed in the heat

And cold is the martyr
his broken face melts in the rain,
proclaimed in procession
of paradise wasted in pain.
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The wounded surround us,
decayed in the ghost of a saint,
and cheated from rebirth eyes closed
and the heart becomes faint.

I start for a moment
and count out the beasts I betrayed
A need for the marvelous
dies scorched in the bed where we layed.