saint of sinners and broken hearts

i was born on all saint’s day, but was supposed to have been here to celebrate a fool getting lost, guess this fool got lost as well and this may have set his course for a life of misread maps and faulty compass distinction

born to be a fighter, spent the first ten years learning to take a punch, a kick, learning to bear the weight of a thousand sins no saint should bear upon bare back and straining legs uphill both ways in a haze in a daze, in a cloud of contusions and ivory white protrusions

ran my tongue along the whetstone, sharpening it and learning how to cut with concern to the pain it caused because that is what you taught me to do

trained me with weapons and no care given to if i hurt others or myself with them, just as long as the blood flows like wine from every vacant stare

plucking flowers from the field in silence, letting the petals float in the wind, a chorus of she love me knots raised on the side of my skull and long serpentine bruises down my back

and from there i sought out others that would confuse and abuse with no understanding that is was the bruise of misuse that led me to the obtuse and untrue

born a saint of broken hearts and tongues like knives when i should have been an explorer searching for that heart of gold, a scorpion with venomous hate and a carapace of rigid want built around his cardiac arrested development

now a simple fool writing poems for kisses and sending them out into the night, never knowing if they find their way home, where the salt of the water and floral scent of wildflowers sit sun kissed and contentedly

my chest is an ungrateful grater that slowly slices and shreds all i hold too near, my mind an oasis of spent casings and bloody fingerprints that hide the scene of the crime, my heart the desert of longing clinging to the bones of sea creatures that once swam the dead sea

i was born a sinner on a holy day after the night of candy and demons, not on the day of indigenous genocide and lost at sea, punch drunk and reeling, staring at the cracks on the ceiling and wondering if you can hear my pleas

the lone wanderer wondering where wanders and wonders seem just over the next sand dune, surfing the dry river bed of empty dreams in search of the answer to questions yet half formed, an illiterate fool with designs on reading the map that looks more like calculus to untrained eyes

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s