To the ears
of the world-weary, the
ascetic life
sounds wonderful,
but something horrible
is smuggled into
the perfect love
of the angel.
Upon closer inspection,
the saint's meek austerity
is a bit too severe;
the blazon martyr may fare better.
You may say
you grow tired
of arguing til dawn
or fighting war with gusto,
but you'd never dare
disavow the passion
and the feeling
and the ardor. Truth is,
in the bid for perfection,
it's the devoted
who risk going abstract
and toothless; I suppose
one must be more
than a touch ruthless
to wear the crown they
call the halo.
