For

Saints do their time just like everybody else
but they just can’t catch a break
their epilogues all writ
in golden language but their
chapters raggedy, potato sack cloth
luxurious – no, that was a joke
falling into grace one stubbed toe at a time

Finally, a realist out of the bunch
he snatched his soul out of the lion’s mouth
and shook a mild-mannered fist toward what might
have been the source of his trials
beginning here, his woman, her mouth a
thin line of hope barely breathing
yet tastefully chaste in its uncertain
rebirth
the kingdom of now is always raggedy
in imagination’s foyer
Plug thine ears with the roar
Cherish the coliseum dirt

more by LORD BISON 

CHECK OUT That Golden Woman – A Spoken Word Album by Lord Bison

Photograph by Eric Thriller