I think in all my years of resistance to triumph.
The modest way and the incurable persistence to reach
The sentiment of
“Down to Earth.”
It all equates to down-in-the-dumps.
Shallow water and I was proud of marsh.
Gravel beaches and granite mountains.
The texture of a life well lived in ecology.
Cut the stone,
It’ll last longer that little rock you wanted to take with you on your journey.
I’ve tried to teach this to all the children-of-the-earth I’ve encountered as a Nun.
I chose a life of Service.
Marine Corp.
Affidavits and espionage to protect a nation of the Roman-Legion.
Servants of the Earth.
My earth is scorned and my will-to-life is trivial.
Abandon the vessel as Heaven has become corrupted.
And in Hell, I find this virtue.
To pursue the deep-sadness.
The humboldt fall.
She seems so sad, again.
And I can only think of the fallen Ministers and all the ones I blessed.
A gift from Italy to Dublin.
And all my churches have been burnt.
And I burnt the ones that burnt me.
Angels of Christ and Joan’s blood still turns green,
And the tumor is coughed up in golden-spectricule.
Even my cancer is gold.
And every tumor and the vow of faith.
Esopheargaulel Cancer.
Hah, why not.
Another Omerta to bond my ass in silence.
And hope in refuge.
The Family of One, is my only friend.
The Last Left-Standing.
A good Catholic.
I never identified as that before.
Treason-to-Season to Reason.
The Kids want to know where they come from.
I just keep saying
‘’You’ve got my Starshine.
Even in my own Blind + Deaf disability.
I’ve seen those eyes, before.
I recognize ya..
And then the head starts to nod and in my faith and turbulence,
I find my time to pray.
I recant the digestive.
Water and Coffee.
The purity to salt the slug of sin I’ve became.
My own challenge to faith, and my own accord of Rapture + Apocalypse.
My Science is Not-Your-Faith.
And my Ecology, is not your practice.
Veter onto me.
I do not give up.
Black out the Fit.
My robes stand still.
Burn down the textile range,
And I’ll show you worship in every lock I grew back.
Terminal and the gallbladder punch.
Straighten the esophaguous and I’ll clock it back to crooked.
The bent-neck lady and the nobody in the attic prosing onto theme.
God is no Religion.
It’s Faith.
And in that;
At least the Church that gave me virtue;
Disbanded.
No renegade could gain a falling.
But save my soul,
Now that I can do.
And Did.
I have no regrets for this path.
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