It is hard to be thankful

For having failed this test.

(However much I’m told to do otherwise).

Judged more than blessed

And found more sorely lacking than ever before.

(How many more failings am I allowed

Before being expelled from my own squandered life?)

Alone, He, who I no longer can address forthrightly,

(Save for late-night terrors of what is more damnation thandeath),

Knows.

He knows.

True discretion was discarded

The moment I gave in wholeheartedly

To my own wanton idiocy—

More fearful than death.

(Augustine’s prayer

Written in unshed blood on my heart—

But I did love. I do.

Because she loved much her sins were forgiven her--

No, but I am not such a fool to twist more truth)

The judgments of men are as meaningless as they ever were

In my resentfully rebellious youth.

I cannot conveniently claim blindness.

One given life, so that two could die—

I continue dying; lacking nothing of former cheerful stupidity.

How can I be anything but ashamed—

When, with your blood only on my heart,

And not my hands, for all to see—

I have nothing; no not even regret?

Intention lacking action somehow absolving me of a sin

That no one sees; no one feels as I do.