Saint

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.
Mythologies.
Doxologies.

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.