Humans in their weakest hour
Shrink away from the sun and hide
In dim rooms with the blinds closed and the cords pulled tightly
So that their eyes can remain sentient of their faults.
They are incapable of insouciance,
And so they recoil from the illusory light that floods from the heavens.

My sorrow can only be washed away in the saltiest water and in the
Quietest chapel.

My spirit hides in the corner of my back pocket,
And tints the air with my aura: opaque nothingness.
Tears run from my jaded eyes, and stains the back of my hands with
Crimson.

I am at my best when I am cutting all of my silk into pieces
And scattering them on the grass.

I am at my best when all of my words are not locked into my throat
And burrowing into the shapeless earth.

I am at my best when my gurgled attempts at
Repentance are not whispered in shame
But in remorseful sighs.

Humans in their weakest hour
Shrink away from the sun and hide
In dim rooms with candles and incense
And pray whispered cadences to the song
Of their broken, yet still beating heart.

My sorrow has been washed away
As I lift my still hands in
Repentance.