St. Francis

I remember I was 14 when I first went to Assisi.

Little boy from BYO, I tell you the process was kinda freaky.

Tears to my eyes; the fear of being ostracized.

Never realized that it was all self-climatized.

The culture shock truly put me to bed.

Not for long though, I was grappling with hate.

Bordza came through daily; sunga was a debate!

I was whiplashed.

That ain’t even the hard part,

cause making friends was the real tough part.

I spent four years dreaming,

thinking of better times; I was in the deep scheming.

The pit of doom and gloom.

Lush gumtrees in the paddocks every noon;

nothing like playing in the dirt with the livestock.

Not sure if I despised taking stock.

Not sure if I despised me.

Nothing spells terror more than sleeping on half-empty.

Nonetheless, I had plenty.

Even though the thing inside felt empty.

My true beginnings are here and there.

I shall never dare the endings of despair.

Never thought that 14 years later I’d be here,

writing about those feelings.

St. Francis; the most appealing.


sunungura marasta!



Photo Credit: Denisse Leon

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I was born not knowing and have only little time to change that here and there

Lance Sheridan

Internationally Published Poet

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