They Would Not Take Me

There is no monastery that would take me,
with my broken legs, unstanding ankle,
complaining spine
and with all the noise in my head -

they like young blood
and vigour, to scrub and care
and do all the tasks
the old forbear

they would label me sick,
in-valid, with a mental health box
of ugly and contentious labels
that would only frighten them -

in short I am too old
and have seen
and felt
too much pain.

Yet am I not
distilled enough in essence,
purified by life
to be exactly the heart and spirit
they seek?

Meek and mild, I have made my
sore way over every rough road
and stile
with the warmth of those
who loved me
alive and well -

but still they would not take me -

even there
preferring outward show, perfection
rather than the real
truth of what being human is
and all the worlds
I could bring within their walls -

irrelevancies.

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