Dear Saint, I’ve come once more,
Your pious devotee,
To polish yet again your handsome face
With such kind eyes upturned to heaven.
Are you praying for deliverance?
My days grow hectic,
Life outside these hallowed halls consumes me,
But I am here now,
Your ever-devoted servant.
Do you hear my prayers?
Faithfully I return, as is my custom,
To deck you in finest splendor,
Hoping for some kind of intervention,
Leaving you better than you were,
With me the poorer for it.
Am I a fool for such fervent belief?
One tawdry transgression, a few missed vigils,
And one too many doubts,
Makes for a progressive upheaval of the heart and mind -
A wicked conversion of the soul.
Could you forgive me?
In my absence, the altar’s become run-down -
The flowers are dust on dried twigs,
The mantle’s a tattered rag,
The candles all burnt to stubs.
Do you even care?
What would become of you, Sweet Saint,
If I stopped my supplications?
Perhaps your dashing figure would chip and crumble.
Perhaps the dust would fill this chapel and turn it into a tomb.
Perhaps the whole thing will come crashing down on itself!
And all that would remain,
A pile of rubble -
A broken headstone to mark your grave.
A pilgrim no more,
I am your black-clad widow.
Mourning the half-forgotten, half-dreamt
Stranger I had once loved.
Saint no more, just another ghoul haunting the night.