we were beggars but we begged from no one
anything but the right to breathe for ourselves.
to watch the shells fall apart
revealing nothing.
so had seeming become an art
so many aspire to
with their own particular Brand
while the image within
of the Weeping God
they don't understand.
I will be without everything then
with no professional repartee at all.
still the skies are His
who swallowed gall.
and though I am deemed small,
even minuscule
in the general census of things
still, still I know
far better to be His fool
in a house of sticks
burned down to the Wick
than to live like this
to play the role
and defraud your Soul.
mary angela dougla 7 august 2019
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