Sins sit on my shoulders.
At first, I think they are just dust;
I try to sweep them off with a light brush.
Then I realize they are freckles,
blankly staring at me,
dirtying my clear, alabaster skin.
As I run my fingertips over them,
I find them feeling rough
like sandpaper or cement bricks.
I try to dig my nails underneath,
attempting to prop them up
the same way I would with
an easel and a picture
or an ottoman and my feet.
They are difficult to peel, though,
and I find that it takes a great struggle.
When I finally rip the sins off,
I toss them up in the air,
allowing them to float around
as I breathe in heavily,
sighing and relaxing,
thanking God's speed.
I forget, though,
that those freckles
float and sail like nomads,
wishing to come down a couple inches
and find themselves again on me.
I flinch and sway,
trying to keep most of them away.
But I become careless after a time,
and welcome one or two over to lay.
Back again on my shoulders,
back again come my fears,
once again I must pick and pull,
once again I look like a fool.
I acknowledge the distrust
that I lay in God's lap.
I see how my promises
highlight my acts of disobey.
These sins on my shoulders
restlessly play
as my fingers are scratching,
scratching away.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
Sins sit on my shoulders.
At first, I think they are just dust;
I try to sweep them off with a light brush.
Then I realize they are freckles,
blankly staring at me,
dirtying my clear, alabaster skin.
As I run my fingertips over them,
I find them feeling rough
like sandpaper or cement bricks.
I try to dig my nails underneath,
attempting to prop them up
the same way I would with
an easel and a picture
or an ottoman and my feet.
They are difficult to peel, though,
and I find that it takes a great struggle.
When I finally rip the sins off,
I toss them up in the air,
allowing them to float around
as I breathe in heavily,
sighing and relaxing,
thanking God's speed.
I forget, though,
that those freckles
float and sail like nomads,
wishing to come down a couple inches
and find themselves again on me.
I flinch and sway,
trying to keep most of them away.
But I become careless after a time,
and welcome one or two over to lay.
Back again on my shoulders,
back again come my fears,
once again I must pick and pull,
once again I look like a fool.
I acknowledge the distrust
that I lay in God's lap.
I see how my promises
highlight my acts of disobey.
These sins on my shoulders
restlessly play
as my fingers are scratching,
scratching away.
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