The Monk
I knew a man of better means
Who scoffed at captains, kings, and queens
Who looked beyond their paltry scenes
And cared not for material things
Disgusted by the wanton life
Of countless paupers, dealings rife
With all such vice that brought him strife
He joined the monks atop the knoll
Yet soon the virus shut him in
And deep inside his pensive den
He contemplated love and sin
And all the forms his God may take
Sated surely, surely sated
Freely flowing liberated
He took all things as always fated
And found night’s peace within his cell
But then at morning’s tender wake
He felt a deeply-rooted ache
The harsher bitings of the snake
That ne’er had he yet felt before
Searching, searching for Salvation
Fending off profound starvation
The sallowed monk, in deprivation
Let seeds of doubt take to their root
So on that morn with knees atrembling
His pious pose and mien assembling
He spoke his peace in form resembling
The savior lost in garden’s pain
“Oh God, oh thee, eternal font
It is for thee I shall not want
Nor bend to the infernal taunt
The mindless ramblings of the day
My faith is in my strident gate
My calm acceptance of the fate
With iron will I sit and wait
With not a care but yours, Oh Lord
But one thing yet to understand
A query for your divine plan
The guiding light and guiding hand
That aids the faithful in their need
You came to Jacob, Paul, and Blake
For them great works within your wake
And yet for all the things you make
Not one more box of Frosted Flake?