Saturday, February 12, 2011

We Christians

Ever since Constantine
We’ve been as sweet as Jesus
And killing with the passion
Of pagans.  At some point

In the life of an alcoholic
He has to make a choice:
The story or the bottle. 
Words go on as smoothly

As the plaster plasterers
Use to fill in the cracks
Or the artist uses to shape
The acts of a saint

On the fa├žade of a church
Built to repel an attack.
The heart is like a monk
Buried inside the library

Looking for proof
He doesn’t need any proof.

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