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Quirky, troublesome saint,
thrust into my life by circumstance.
Edge of madness.
Edge of life.
Existing on a knife blade
where we slip and fall.

All the kings horses and all the kings men.

Cut your wrists.
Cut and run.
Cut your teeth on structure.
Plant hope in shifting sands.
Put everything in its in place:
Order from confusion. 

All the best saints first know pain.

Answer the dreams
of the fortunate few
while searching the soul's pasture
for signals.
Every meandering trail
ends in a dismal spot.

All roads lead to now.

We didn't need a crystal ball
to know where this would end:
(tablets ropes bullets)
They broke your locks
for one last time,
and you rose on the fifth day.

Canonized: perfect at last.

The young get hagiographies.
You're an unreliable specialty saint
who will not answer prayers.
But you left some useful memos.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.


J Cosmo Newbery said...

I'm clearly not in line for canonization but I hope I have left a few useful memos.

September 7, 2014 at 4:36 AM
Jae Rose said...

The last verse hit me...the death of the troubled and young somehow absolves them of the damage they can leave behind...after a while the cutting..the ropes and the running become old..tired...literally..the useful memos shows resilience...a sense of no longer being drawn in...of moving on and away

September 7, 2014 at 4:36 AM
Old Egg said...

Of course we can learn from others, saints or not. However our best lessons come from our own mistakes. This piece seems somehow different from your usual style. It is good to be surprised!

September 7, 2014 at 5:28 AM
Anonymous said...

"Plant hope in shifting sands"---such a poignant line.

September 7, 2014 at 11:12 PM
Anjum Wasim Dar said...

philosophical-a serious thoughtful poem

September 8, 2014 at 1:57 AM
Alice Audrey said...

I love the phrase "all roads lead to now."

September 9, 2014 at 12:17 PM

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