Saturday Service.

by John Smallshaw
(London, England)

I knocked on the door of a saint
Shouted..
Let me in, let me in
Help me paint over this sin.

It was never the same after puberty came
And childhood turned into much more.
Yet.
I know there are Saints and there's definitely paints
So why don't he open the door?

Lifeskills and the wilful ways of Men
Not something you'd think would fit together but then
We're all made from pieces and parts
From good or bad hearts and we have to make do.

So I knock again at the door..this is getting a bore
If he can't forgive me
I've got more living to live see..
..the time.
I could climb over the wall..into the window and down that long hall
But I think I'll go home
I might go to Rome...they've got Saints over there..enough and a plenty.


This is what's meant to be..no undercoat or fresh gloss on me
Gee.
Can't wait to see
Heaven.

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