A Saint of the Idol of the Age

I rest my high-held chin

On something fading

I square my shoulders…

Against my lack of life

I march far through the street

A saint of the idol of the age

And when I am forty…

And when I am sixty..

What will be my glee?

Will I not simply envy

And rant that I use to be

A young proud girl…

Telling myself God is my strength

Though my pillars are encased in three-inch heels

And claiming the Cross as my soul’s mercy

When I know the mercy I seek

Is sought with a flash of outlined eye

What a fool do I take myself for?

And my God, so much more?

A wretched saint of the idol of the age.

A PROVERB

Excess proves regrettable,

restraint breeds appreciation

ANOTHER PROVERB

Better to go slow, planning your course to ensure that you arrive at the intended destination than rush in the wrong direction.