Decrepit Saints

The men who smoke
On corners
Bury words inside
Their ashes
And hide what dreams
Escape them
Pushing secrets
Through each puff –

Proving life
All empty breaths
As they kill both lungs
With sadness
Forcing smiles wide
Yet rotten
Like those yellowed teeth
Which show

Every crack
We can’t neglect
Chasing healthy goals
More damaged
Than such vices known
Could peddle
Before claiming fate
Will come

Should our leisure
Catch this thrill
Burning open mouths
Still silent
Forming better lines
From poets
Pursing lips
Around that butt,

For some prophets
Value soul
Over perfect lives
Less dangerous
Where obsession
Fuels resentments
Finding family means
Regret

And successes
Wasted time
Working honest jobs
In circles
Gaining little hope
While waiting
Across decades
Fearing death

When instead
True gospel hurts
Idling threats
Upon long faces
Hanging down
Though praying fire
Letting halos fall
Like sparks.

  • J. Pigno

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