The Private Lives of Saints
Peace is mine when muscles forget to ache.
Hope arrives on wings of bread,
Solace in a faithful friend.
What do these arms describe,
This heart, this road, this mind?
What do these restless dreams confide?
Love is a flower. I watch it grow,
The thorns, the blood, the rose.
Ask her what I feel. She knows.
She knows. She knows.
November 19, 2006
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