The Decent

Image by Paul Burnett

Oh, the decent souls among us,
The whimsical-natured,
You who gesture deliberation
And gaze grace — I lament you.

How do you know evil?
Your tranquil visage beseems no vile,
No wretched simulacrum.

But what does your mirror hear,
And what penance does it prescibe?
Does it grant an absolution planar or plenary?

I wish for your sin — to want as scant pardon
As you have come to want, and to be as settled;
To recuse myself and withhold the
Foresworn testimony that abides upon
The baptized — we, whose unclean spirits
Have been adjured to give way.

Craven as we are, naught but commingled
Earth and fire, we would sell our birthright.
But could we even then pay the indemnity?

Into your dusty flesh, too, the Divine came.
Yet we esteemed him not — not you, not I.
May He find you, brother of mine.

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