Hope?
a priest sat by the altar
a tired Mexican
worn out by the heat of the day
creased chasuble
reflecting the lines on his face
once young and vital
treading the narrow way
or flying high
with winged and sandaled feet
to teach wisdom to eager minds
the moving hand
moved on
passed over
and left him
on the shelf of despair
who made his bread so stale
his cup so bitter
did God fill him
with unfulfilled talent
for a joke
or did the church
dispense the poisoned chalice
for the sake of old enmity
episcopal arsenic accumulating
in the dregs of his life
or was he too proud
and cast down
from the heaven
that should be
his home
now he is so tired
the fire has gone out
only an occasional spark
too cold to bring
his visions to the boil
is his reflection
the ghost of my future
warning of the curfew of humiliation
waiting
to ambush the proud
Or will the wind from God
Which brooded over deep waters
Fan the glowing embers
Into the consuming fire
That creates self.
