Rectory on the Hill

I found my wants in a pile of residual snow.

As if, it had no place left to go.

Over the wrecked rectory on the hill.

Beyond the country store where the town drunks get their fill.

Ten miles past Franklin Motel.

A habitat for the loners looking to get out of hell.

I nudged my desires with a blackened steel toe.

As if, I had no place left to go.

Years before gravity took hold.

I fanned a flame to a luxurious limbo.

It had been an overfed shelter of lust and misconstrued need.

But my flame grew higher and harder to fed.

I kicked at the embers.

Such as I do now.

With a lessened ego.

Ash to ash…I made sure it had no place left to go.

It would appear that contentment starts slow.

As in the vacant burning back lots.

As in the gradual interment of lack luster thoughts.

Standing over the stained melting snow.

I now have some place that I can go.

Flawed Sinners, Sages and Saints

“In my lifetime, I’m still not right.”

the Indigo Girls

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Frail as an, azure manicure…He simply said to me,

“that is what we have left for you.

In such a youthful state…your only tranquility will be a savored, small room set in the mind.”

I could scarcely understand such a, scarred, singed, sage.

No matter the matrimony.

No matter the saint.

No longer…young at middle age.

His terse, flawed quotes…were far from quaint.

Until a debris of wants.

My hoarders bin filled the tapestry in the sacred room.

Cluttering my soul!

A bee swarm!220px-papal_shoes

Being flawed and broken, I held the four walls up to my looking glass.

Plastic abrasions filled my whole.

Among the lonely space…

dreams of nylon insurrection paid for with youthful…tainted cash.