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?