Peasant

You will not do anymore, worn shoes
In which I have lived in like holey socks,
Dirty and poor for twenty years,
Barely the strength to breathe or eat,
A ghastly statue of skin and bones.

My friends all died before their time,
Carrying to a grave a bagful of religion,
Ragged clothes scraped from white bodies,
Tossed into a fire — pacing up and down in an alley;
I use to pray for you until my eyes went blind.

Trying to pick worms off of me,
I have always been scared of insects,
Like a death boot in the face as they burrow in;
Through the uncut grass of a cemetery I stumble,
In search of the holy ghost, looking to repent.

Crossing and recrossing, my aging fingers
Trespassing on sacred ground;
An unmarked headstone — I was still warm
When society shoved me in an earth crypt;
I no longer trespass stupidly among the black hearts.

Copyright © 06/08/18 lance sheridan®

Peasant

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