Tiny little priests
Stacked so neat
With holy paper weights
And windows shut
To quell the morning breeze.
Humidity and iron will,
With dust that settled
Some centuries ago
And painful growth
Is a thing unknown.
Such innocence blesses
And kisses like a mother
Would a thankless child,
Some raise a man to give him up
And other just to hide.
But oh how envious
of those winter loins
A swollen man becomes,
When summer heat exposes all
And cancer takes its toll.
No comments:
Post a Comment