At the end of Christmas I realize
monsters will only shed their claws one step
at a time and just when minor mortals
deem their weight is no longer thrown around.
And holier-than-thou entitled moms
curse tardiness as grave a sin as dirt;
whose personal intent remains unstopped
like, to a Ghost, a column like that costs.
Guidance figures will take upon themselves
to serve and in the service put to task
minions they perceive beneath their estate
because ensconced in clerical domain.
These sacred stewards pray on bended knees
and genuflect as many times as they
frequent the sanctuary; mouthing “Peace”
to all and sundry, their eyes heavenward.
An insignificance is bludgeoned like
he could all by himself incur a wrath.
A better-placed servant can’t rest relieved
to be the object of a dislike wish.
Would not the church be better occupied
if charlatans were with Him crucified
along with my intense remorseful pleas
to make me worthy to eschew the kiss.
So that when carols ring and lanterns glow
I can embrace God’s goodness cared to sow
it’s not the birth nor His death for without
the resurrection I’m as good as dead.
Abraham de la Torre
