Must sanctity be chaste and Greco-gaunt,
With manhood hid by fig leaf of the arts,
Oblation damming flow of sense's font?
Do those love most with meek, ascetic hearts?
\In passion does man's nature soar high skies,
Releasing gravity's unfeeling grip.
Our senses take wing in the hows and whys
Of creativity and fellowship.
\Each person is encased in mystery,
Pervaded with potential deep, profound,
An Earth-borne seeker mining destiny
In Earth-bound gems from incarnate ground.
Oh, saint, full humanness you must have known
Before a rite on cold, grey Roman stone.
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