A Vagrant Saint Guzzling down grace like alcohol My crutch Is the strongest part of me Swooned In the ditch of the shadow of death I dream Holding a soiled patchwork cloth Which some call faith May my only modesty Be to dance naked before You. My only dignity To wander backalleys with You My only comfort To stand in the howling wind Of a Dove’s Wing. Pure power In a jar of clay and playdoe Leaks out ‘Cause I’m cracked and tipsy I’m sick Spinning on the Potter’s wheel Riding The righteous roller coaster Which some call faith Family parasite I latch onto Isaiah’s eagle Small Splash In lighter skies, deeper blues Huge plunge Through the swirling masses Cloudy day Free-fall in the static cold Some call it faith |
| Adam B. Green |
| Prayer of a Vagrant Saint |