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.