Some lame condition impedes his vision in the rain
and his indecision is betrayed.
Some holy scriptures make up the pictures of his pains,
in a frenzied fiction in-between the frame;
clothes black as snake eyes -
same apparel all the time,
half lidded stoic stone wall
in his mind;

He claims that he don’t pray
but he’ll always bow.
The priests would have him saved
but they don’t know how.
And the saints sing it loud:
“No hallelujahs now!”

He’s scared of the daylight, he wasn’t gifted with a skin
thick enough to accommodate his sin,
but he always crawls back into her open arms
whenever she calls out to him.
Coarse palms and grazed knees,
burnt back, he’s withdrawn so easily -
Scorched pride, disenchanted pine
of his father’s seed;

He claims that he don’t pray
but he’ll always bow;
The priests would have him saved
but they don’t know how.
And the saints sing it loud:
“No hallelujahs now!”

His mother is silent to him,
all jail and no trial,
and the entrails of his grief
all entail the details of this hell,
but he comes by all the time in denial - he denies it all -
but confession ain’t his style
unless he’s high - then it’s vile…

Then he’ll talk for a while, giving all his thoughts away,
then there’ll be no reason for him to stay.
But I listen to him ‘cause we know each other well,
in a brief and jaded kind of way.
I show him concern,
but he yearns for her so…
His mind burns
and the angels know that he’ll return to her;

He claims that he don’t pray
but he’ll always bow;
The priests would have him saved
but they don’t know how.
And the saints sing it loud:
“No hallelujahs now!”