journal · poetry

Short Up

I turn to ashes
I fall like rain
alone again with his charity
and your saintliness
standing for all that is right
and true
leaving the rest of the world
wondering what to do:
fly high or sink low
digging our holes
six feet or ten
or perhaps
eight and one half –
a comfortable compromise
for all of us here
that don’t make the cut
of angels or saints
or demons.
We struggle in the center
and hope for better
but prepare for the worst.
What else have we got?

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