The Stationary Saint

When the world coughs a nasty smog. That clogs your brain and makes you frown. You can always count on the saint of the greens. To burden themselves with our s**t. They would crucify their pure white. In reluctant flavor of being mistaken - charcoal. Sitting there in agonising contempt. But that’s alright, as they would return to their former glory. Gifting others with the atmosphere of compassion. Every walking evening, I ask myself if I can turn to a saint like that. Until I remember that I possessed lungs. That expunged those smudges everytime I kneel.