Up close I saw my soul today,
So drawn, so wan, so dried...
Fresh bloom, page-pressed to look that way,
Unloved, unfed, untried.
Which wretched choices brought to be
This wreath hung on its door?
Banal neglect, or plain to see,
The pleasure, crumb-strewn floor.
Away, apparition of gloom
I can't, I won't, accede
My soul, (this starved, cold corpse, its tomb),
Has laid to me, this deed.
Protests aside, the dark can't hide
What screams for light of day,
The soul needs food if to abide,
Three times, daily convey.
Can I like Scrooge at last surmise
To feed my spirit side?
Can from these coals a phoenix rise
To waft the timeless tide?
The yea, assured to be correct,
Requires some faithful acts!
Each day of life do not neglect
The soul's immortal facts!
--Fr. Veni di Morte
copyright 1998, The Goober Tree Press, all rights reserved
This poem appeared in Wellspring: A Journal of Christian Poetry, Sept. 1999.