Simply Crossed

What a cross-like perversion,

You flaming martyr!

All those knots in your mind and stomach,

You’re coughing up smog

And refute the light,


A joker, a smoker;

Your illness is my own

And they still cry out in the streets

For you.


So your eyes are full of smoke

Hung in yellowing sorrow,

For self and a shared longing

For the smallest of things

In the simplest of ways.


The path is long,

Your horse has grown tired ‘tis all,

As a leaf falls

See yourself in the tree

Not the cross.


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