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there is nothing saintly about you
there aren't even any sins to confess
you are like a mound of dirt
formless and without emotion
I once stood by you
engaged with your every word
your shiny shoes suspicious from the start
how was I to beleive a revolutionary
would preffer Gazpacho and the
shade of trees instead of a straw hat and the
sun that shines upon the canal of injustice?
you who scoffed at having women speak
you who threatened with your fists
I lost my mind for you or should I say your brother
who quit you in the end
knowing that you did wrong
you who came out of this
somewhat intact
but, never holy
never holy