Saint Schwartz


Poem Commentary

Written on 09/30/2011 - 2:20 PM.

Saint Schwartz

Bounding clouds made of eternity, a saint in every likelihood
Her naivete a barbed outer wall coated in lacquered pink acrylics
Her ways a foreign ministry, esoteric and uniquely hers
The saint of spoils and misbegotten goods, acquired by fire
Taken in earnest by the selfishness of another man
She, the pretty bronzed relic, passed down by fleeting passersby
Handled for a time without dedication or whispers of promise
She grows saddened, feels despaired, ridden and cast aside
And sets out to chisel the stone away from her center

Saintly wings fold beneath the burden of heavy sighs and sorrows
She descends involuntarily to Earth, a comet through the atmosphere
And lands upon a boy, decimating upon impact, rising to see
His dark blue eyes and his matted hair, his look of shock and surprise
And they kiss like it means nothing, and in the end it does
Their meeting, their departure, their renewal, their collapse
All stones in a neat line that topple one another with every quaking volley

She exiles herself, beyond all mortal realms where he may dwell
And seeks solace and sigil with her familiar betrayer's grasp
In his arms she has sought meaningless comfort, and it comes
In the depths of such aftermath, she loses herself to the current
Such tides that run beneath her, propelling her adrift, aloft
May carry her softly towards the beaches of another fellow
And though they may lead to roaring falls or swirling coastal storms
She chooses to ignore the pleas for clarity, reason and choice
In favor of the loose, the questionable and the lacking in integrity
For when she sits upon such flow and allows it to make her choices
In her stead, the grinding gears of fate may lead her somewhere better

With fragile hope clinging helplessly to the strings of her heart
She sails towards and away from the nether, playing her harp restlessly
Struggling to remember a funny tune she had once learned, way back when.

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Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.

T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

SocratesAgrees’s Poems (16)

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