A moldy warrior's apologea

What do I stand for  sitting among the dead   as they lay upon their coffin-beds?

Can't I rise to something   or do I fear the known?   Am I the

coward-king   martyred in dreams and whisked away at my awakening?

Coward-kings rule everywhere:   in white houses and walled temples

columned halls and limousined stalls   at the measured speed of bureaucrats

with filed cases discussed ad nauseam   What's the use is stamped upon their

heads   I'm one of a multitude of believer-citizens   armored in grace 

and untouched by sin   suburnbanized and guarded from the cursed

I wrench at the truth of it   my concrete-feet avoiding noble deeds   My mouth

speaks at computer-pace   the alphabet-sentences of sounds too weak to miss

I'm a molded-warrior   lacking attentive eyes and a prophet's might

 uncourageous to speak and might to walk  until my oppressive fear is balked

*Reflections of Jean Sulivan:

-Conceptual man is exiled from communion; death tears away from him the only thing that counts, possession.

-The West with its mechanistic intelligence has thus become the third world of the spiritual life.

-We say, "We believe in" but we're not "Moved by."  That's why joy rarely visits us, and when it comes we feel guilty.

-Because eternal life doesn't run in your veins and you haven't learned to laugh, you have to feel important, like small gods.

-God is the silence of every word.