Romances sans la Pitié
Uncertain like a compass suffering pull
From two strong poles, or like a planet near
Two tugging stars, Paul mirrored a saint full
Of doubt while standing on the streets of sheer
Bright gold in heaven but consumed by lust
To fall to hellfire given half a chance.
Until the younger poet threw a crust
Of praise to him, he did an iffy dance,
Not knowing he was great and holy in
The realm of poetry. The wife and boy
Who tugged inside his heart extended sin
And sanctity, but he was like a toy
On strings they jerked. The cruel mouth said, “This
New poetry deserves my point blank kiss.”