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unleavened bread
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I here i sit in cluttered room calmly, tearly reminisce weave upon my poet's loom touch a letter often read from a friend i've lately missed sooth—the writings of the dead read a book with broken binding memorize a lovèd line shroud my poem with artless windings drawn from fibers of the past sip a paper cup of wine change the words i've written last IIthese my wordly deeded ways steeped in angered arrogance protected by the recitation of insidious explanation crushed now on the barren truth sprouting from my withered youth pleading, crying, “i am Thine!” graceless, leprous, libertine these the problems caused by greed by my selfless cool obsession with my dire imagined need in monastic isolation from the wantings of the poor (foundlings left beside the door) greed, which prayer can absolve problems money cannot solve IIIWith a scar upon my heart and my heart upon my sleeve I shall knock upon the door of the Church of Sanctity with a blush upon my face and a face subdued by grief with a word or two of prayer I shall seek the cool relief of a formal absolution after bitter-sweet contrition at the end of secrecy this sharp correction wrought of God scrawls upon my soul an odd inscription of fragility and thus begins my restitution: prayer, penance, destitution in the Church of Mystery. by Ronald L Conte Jr |
© Copyright 1995 by Ronald L Conte Jr
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