Saint’s Lament

Matthew 6:24

My masters have deserted me.
They’ve left me, all but one.
Like withered fingers atrophied
they clutch no more. I’m done
with clinging to my mother’s hand,
her sweet security;
I ask no more that every man
protect or side with me.
My need for boys’ admiring looks,
my lust for girls’ soft touch,
the famine I once felt for books,
the thirst for fame— So much
an appetite for such success
I had! Now all are gone.
Each more has turned into a less,
each right become a wrong.
The circle of my life is closed,
an empty space within,
with room for but a single rose,
blood-tinged and pledged to him.

This is just what came to me, and quickly, after reading overnight, and for the hundredth time, the words about no man serving two masters.

Not autobiographical. But I get it.