I am proud to be dead.

I am proud to be dead

A poem for Saint Wulstan

I am proud to be dead

Looking down for my wanton love.

They named me a Saint,

But what do they know

Of my saintly-hood?

The wind rustles the leaves on the trees,

Birds fly overhead.

And what do they do?

They praise me.

As I look down, for my wanton love.

Shrouded in mystery,

A shadow dances in the wall.

Another saint is named.

Another is praised.

Another saint looks down from the heavens

For his wanton love.

I don't know how I feel about this poem. I am neither satisfied nor dissatisfied.