I’ll Quit When It’s Done…

… I said to a meditating monk

burnt by flames, soothed and

coal black, his body charred

and beautiful; locked inside

him a will to continue,

until his skin melds with

his creator, a mystical

journey into the eye of

the storm, a will to seek

enlightenment and love,

all through him and his

unwavering faith; as I sit

destitute and alone, I

feel like I am down dirty,

cryptic and callow, no

safe word saves my soul,

a ghost of an effort for tea,

entranced and entrenched

in a soil-less garden,

adding nitrates to the ground,

time aware of my breath,

lovely tomatoes this time

of year, deer traveled North,

we were saved by misdirection,

my own monkshood as blue

as a night in December;

long is the caste, I think

out loud to the sky, traveled

and black, I wait for the

fire to burn, paying careful

attention that my tears

don’t extinguish my trust,

and prevent me from my

sanctification, incorporeal

and static, I can still see

my father’s eyes at night,

but I can’t feel his hand,

his voice imprinted on my

minds’ eye, the cold ground

my bridge, a bullet stopped

and painted, I asked the monk

for my money back, he

chuckled as I closed the door.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on October 5, 2016.

4 Responses to “I’ll Quit When It’s Done…”

  1. What an amazing poem you are so talented X
    ~SS

  2. What a journey you brought us on. Amazing. Thank you Shawn

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