In My Vernacular

Cleaning the Augean
stables, I was going
to punish myself.

A soldier of your conscience
you will not commit
suicide for the sake of heaven.

History repeats itself.
There was no waiting
to open the morgue and
search your cadaver.

A burnt out stigma
still spreads the incense.
Blackbirds fly in unison.

A crepe bandage
was not sufficient to alleviate
the pain of centuries.

I am still asking
myself to receive a gift
of poverty.

Truth has lost its glitter.