You are a different kind of monk,
a reader of scriptures and poems,
of news and the strange stories each of us carries,
a keeper of other people’s secrets,
less prone to keep your own,
poor at protecting yourself,
but somehow a safe haven for the ones around you.
Content with silence.
Content with less than you have,
a prayer warrior with few other weapons left
than the remembrance
of your own survival.
You laugh too much for a priest.
You read too much, and not just holy books,
a madcap mixture of sacred and profane,
the stuff of life you call it,
fiction, each truth dripped out like liquid gold,
tortured Titians with all the color and glory
painted on humble boards.
You scratch words in the early morning,
confessions few understand, content
to let them create their own landscape
from your bloody battleground, content
to let them feel the sacred loves
that keep you
at long last,
in a field of corpses.
About this poem
Don’t ask me. It just showed up. Muses are like that sometimes.