Forever have I feared the lashing,
the deep cut of criticism,
a stroke from the heart of man,
afraid of his own shadow,
observations cut from the cloth of reflective lack of sight.

Man speaks from behind a thin veneer of authority,
a broken vessel,
water spilling from the spaces between his teeth,
lies pressed tight against cheek,
silver tongue writhing against insecurities,
ignorance and misguided intentions.

Like a crown of thorns,
the oppression of shame,
of mistakes,
and obscenities from out of the mouth of babes,
a magnet to muddied words,
wrought of sovereignty,
guided by prints and yardsticks,
lines drawn with precision,
written with a pencil shaped sweetly,
with razor blades,
points at each end.

Sin,
a note from the reed of Christianity,
righteous indignation,
against riotous insinuations,
he is a good Christian,
well intentioned,
but lacking in charity,
though child of God still,
be it in name or idea,
abstraction or guiding hand,
and he would have others feel shame,
for misery so loves his company,
despite never wishing to feel the same,
seething with fear at his own visage,
afraid of his reflection.

I have no objections to his words,
no bulwark against the sting,
the sharp ring of truth,
half or full,
in my stomach up to the guard,
I have nothing to say on moral relativity,
I have only this to say to your inquiry:

I will apologize for my actions,
but I will not apologize for who I am,
for I am a friend to agency,
and have no lack of ambition.