Sainthood
. . . this oath is a dead end.
Not where one needs to hang
the head in shame, traipsing back,
following one's own footprints
like a pack-animal hiding
the number of hungry mouths. No,
this vow dead-ends in death,
cessation of breathing-in one's
repugnance and avarice. No,
this dead end is death itself.
Oh sure, there will be stories
of how one drove rose branches,
complete with thorns,
into sleeping apparel,
so by morning, blood drops
like sin drips onto white perfection.
Likely, others will be inspired to humility
and replication, self-effacement,
cloistered in a room of penitence.
Others will remember you
fed animals in botanical gardens,
surrounded by honeysuckle-circled bird feeders,
or trolled urban streets and alleys
for orphans and the homeless.
But others will reflect on
the ascendancy . . .
between living in this world
and in another's fantasy.
--Todd Sukany 30 Nov 2015
. . . this oath is a dead end.
Not where one needs to hang
the head in shame, traipsing back,
following one's own footprints
like a pack-animal hiding
the number of hungry mouths. No,
this vow dead-ends in death,
cessation of breathing-in one's
repugnance and avarice. No,
this dead end is death itself.
Oh sure, there will be stories
of how one drove rose branches,
complete with thorns,
into sleeping apparel,
so by morning, blood drops
like sin drips onto white perfection.
Likely, others will be inspired to humility
and replication, self-effacement,
cloistered in a room of penitence.
Others will remember you
fed animals in botanical gardens,
surrounded by honeysuckle-circled bird feeders,
or trolled urban streets and alleys
for orphans and the homeless.
But others will reflect on
the ascendancy . . .
between living in this world
and in another's fantasy.
--Todd Sukany 30 Nov 2015