pristine posed with angels bliss and the Blessed Madonna

this tiny soldier boy stands silent in his navy blue retreat

shuffling small booted feet across the grey of rigid marble

between thick old wooden pews where memories repeat

pinned upon his young chest the heaven’s whitest rose

with paintbrush in hand to honor his spirit’s throes

is it that he is a child again whenever he is at their feet?

Saints and Sinners both reside within that church across the street

gold flecked in tall frescoes and molded in a ghostly pale

it’s all there in the simplicity that kings and men regale

too easily carried the rules and walls but soul’s charity lesser seen

for faith is a much lighter thing and in the cracks it falls between

for another’s lack of faith the closing of eyes too wide to smile

a childhood of misread quotes from bible pages not yet reconciled

led by just one frocked man who you willingly gave all your wisdom to

still confusing his crooked path for the one that was meant for you