I escaped the lion's den.
So, I am done with hand wringing,
Dragging my palm down my nape.
Forefinger and thumb squeezing the bridge,
Encircling my chin, to the point.

The time has come to discard my hair-shirt,
To loosen the cilice;
Stop the self-flagellation,
And smear balm on my mortified back.

I shall repose, indulge in a repast.
And prepare for the proclivities of the flesh,
To revel in the concupiscence of humanity.
Cast off chastity, poverty and obedience.

We are not saints or martyrs.
The cause is not worth the pain.
I am forgiven.
I forgive.
You could too.