Patron Saint

All I am is the blood
That floods the catacombs that expand
And render you a man
And it’s to this that you render me down
Distill me to a tissue so profound
So as to reduce the process of riddance
To a small incision
And liquid spilled upon the ground

But why spill when you can shoot?
Like bullets out of the barrel of a shotgun
You’re essentially in possession of one
A rigid barrel fashioned only to function
As a covering over the final stretch
Of a parade of ammunition prepared to etch
A carving
A tattoo
A scar if you will
But no skin to pierce
No heart to stop
No living presence to kill

A firearm possessed to respond to a calling
Sit down
Face ahead
So stern
“Down the hall
At the desk
In the room
In front of that man.
Look straight forward,
Don’t smile,
Uncross your legs if you can,”
Said the voice.

You hear voices?
Directing you to your destiny?
I’d canonize you
Guaranteed
If all you were destined to do
Was to try and save me
But forget that
You’ve already started to bleed