Whole by Robert R. Ciccolini

Just one more grasp is all you want;

One more teacher, one more jaunt.

One more glass, more tonic

mass deception.

Morning tide won't rub

it off. You dug too deep,

you killed the only

moth left blind

attracted by your

burden.

Now you know

the way to hell

is riddled with

what preachers sell,

it's hallways are

adorned with

sacred burglars.

Now that you've matured

a bit the litanies

become the grist for

lions in the alters of

your temple.

And you know you

can't go back-

the bridge collapsed

into the gap.

You kneel amidst the

dust there, weeping,

whole.