Trash Collecting

What noble quest my heart aspired
while in the pews of a bleach tabernacle,
for I would descend into the bowels of filth
though remained untainted by its stain
as the other followers of clean
had so professed was their claim.

Nodding in agreement
hoping my eyes wouldn’t betray
those thoughts of litter lusts,
which oft infected my brain.

So I sallied forth in righteous charge,
proudly defiant that no sewer
would spot my whitewashed robe.

But I never counted on the stench
swirling in my mind both day and night
until it caused dumps to appear before my eyes,
powerless to cease their apparitions
before life itself seemed only hopelessly rotten.

I thought myself a mutant
so utterly vile for my defection
from the sacred chamber
where I had know a few moments of purity’s phantom
inhabit my insides.

Feeling so depressed over how trash
seemed to cling to my life
to ashamed to visit the tabernacle again
until I met another collector whose face
bore no garbage grief.

He shared his secret with me,
how it wasn’t filth that tainted the heart,
but eyes that couldn’t see
flickers among the garbage
and look for its shimmering beauty.