The Stationary Saint
When the furnace cough a nasty smog, that clogs your brain which makes you frown. You can always count on the saints of the greens, to burden themselves with our shit. That would crucify their pure white. In reluctant flavor of being mistaken charcoal, and sit there in agonising contempt. But that's alright, as they would return to their former glory and gift others with an atmosphere of compassion. Every walking evening, I ask deep if I can turn myself into an saint like that? Until I remember that I possesses lungs which expunge those smudges everytime I kneel.