Can you not see you angry souls
what rapture there is in the waving wheat grass autumn wind?
That the stream of every sin leads to an ocean of pain and ice,
that cracks and breaks and thaws again when you are ready to absorb it?
You are not alone, even in your bitterness, you are impregnate.
Can you not see, uncertain souls
that the starving beast you feed is inadequacy?
That the towers of your love and your mind are the sharp edges
cutting through the cold and wandering mine?
You are not alone, even in your fear, you are emboldened.
Give me the tired, the hungry, the poor, the unstable minds,
for I have forgotten what it is to hate. I am no saint.
I am a stubborn vagrant who burns
too fast to wait
to be swallowed.