4984. RISING

RISING

The airs of sanctification cause a pain

as much as any other  -  I call upon this

force to direct even my arrivals and departures.

Like some tormented St. Christopher, watch

thee over me. But why you ask? Because

I get tired of fighting for the right.

-

Tumescent becomes a tired life; it fits it well.

Old and worn now, down at the edges with the

same old things  -  yes, people are clowns yet they 

flock to other clowns as well, just to see, to chatter, 

to gloat under the usual matter. It's the same old fodder 

always  -  Little Rock  and Hope and here, 

all the same, all the same page.

-

And the same red blood runs through the stone,

making me purple now with rage.