SAINTHOOD

It is easy to be saintlike
When one has given up…
It is easy to curl up
With one’s dogma of choice
And let the vested
Scrabble for scraps
That have no meaning to the
‘…almost not here anymore…’

Money? Who cares?
We have no need of
Money
Where we are hiding….

Justice for the unfair life
Means nothing
To the ones who’s lives
Are yet unlived…

Survival? We need it not!
The image of leaving
Our husk behind
Is comforting
To those of us
Who have been
Buried
Half a century

How does one come back
From the near-dead?
And how does one make
The Journey
Alone?

Even in the company of others
We are still alone.
Even in the company of
Ourselves’
We are still alone.
For being perpetually crowded
From without and within
We are still alone.
Always alone…

The wraithlike calls
From within
Pale beside the
Cacaphonous egos
That surround us.

Why are they here?

Do those without
Seek surcease
From their own density
In the cavernous emptiness
That we have become?

Do they gravitate
Toward us
In order to occupy
Our empty Sepulchre
Wherein we are
Buried alive?

Or does the very loudness
Of their noise
Render them empty
While our silent screaming
Is the fullness
That is sought?

How does one come back
From the near-dead?

Should one even try?

 

By cindy
3/15/2017