Who I am to say
What grave mistakes I made?
Who I am to play the judge
Presiding over trudging
And the love that lights my way?
Who am I to color in the lines?
What size am I?
Do I possess the necessary deftness
To paint pictures for the blind?
Why would I decry myself?
Deny myself?
Why would I, in reaching for the highest,
See my sighs as pension
At the mention of my wealth?
What is there to find,
Beside the stinging of misgivings
That infringe upon my whimsy's winging,
Whimpers winning out,
Sour mouthed,
Against a new beginning?
Though surely I have sinned,
The more do implore the Power that endures
And ask
For my forgiveness,
And to be forgiving.
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