Our minds
Always choose cliches
As poets themselves
Will become one
While trying so hard
To avoid it
Despite knowing how life
Seems to work –

This terrible need
Sharing words,

On which faith gags
Spouting humor,

Without seeking laughs
From a reader
Whose only job
Was belief

Or at least not grin
When we choke
Downing rancid truths
Nearly swallowed
By corrupted faith
Snuffing candles
Despite chasing lines
Burning bright.

This lighted path
Leading pages
Traces margins dark
Lacking wisdoms
Such hallowed terms
Turned cathedrals
Offer pious flames
In that space,

Trading legacies
Honestly said
Behind every term
Casting shadows

Across what hell
Remains empty

Finding heaven
Through phrases between.

Keep writing those fears
Facing doubts
For sainted scribes
Remain anxious,

Though immortal
Since forcing uniqueness
Beneath weighted sins
Grown devout –

Traumatic lies
Overused
Since tired jobs
Make us heavy,

Feeling sad
But never spontaneous

Yet oddly mad
There is hope.

Perhaps suffering
Eases all staleness
If expression
Proves soullessly basic
Leaving deeper dreams
Unexamined
Beyond standards
Death often wills.

• J. Pigno