Atonement
My Lord...
I, the ill-fated, the scythe-bearing wind,
ask for forgiveness instead of death.
You do know that what I say is diurnal, don’t you?
Sibyl Herophile died prophesying their end
not mine.
I am hovering within your hands,
breathing from your own lungs.
I beg of you, forget the red prison house.
I fear, My Lord. Beckon me.
I no longer chant your hymns.
I have forgotten my childhood prayers.
Ramming in secular injustice
I seek my own sunrise.
In the affected I seek the authentic,
I cry to you, My Lord.
But then again, if you by judgment
find me dishonorable,
I beg of you, in secret bury me.
Kill me
by giving me the most unfavorable criticism.
Lay me to rest
in a huge mound of sun dust.
In you I trust,
My Lord.
Copyright © Miltos Gitas | Year Posted 2016
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