Misanthropist Keeper of Sins
Don't lie to me. Don't half-truth to me,
like some craven jar, wide of mouth and
full of capricious weather. And never sing
to me tunes not of your own making
I am not yours to pawn, as a wastrel parts
with heirlooms hard won.
I may be your grey, but I am not your palette.
I may be your shoe, but I am not your sole
You may try to stand me next to many,
but I stand alone, tethered to stark
isolation.You gift me a nuance of cheer,
like a catcus gifts colour to a desert,
only to rescind it and fortify it beyond all approach.
My only light shall come from giving. As receiving of
you brings me nothing but shadows within shadows,
where light remains an unreachable horizon
Each charitable memory may be owned by you, but they
shall never be ascribed to you. They fly tainted upon the
wind. You demand my will, my beating existence, like the
Laird demands his tithe and insufferable Prima Nocta
So, I choose supplication as my sword, lest my tempest
rage beyond the pail and call false my humility and mild manner
Let yours be the kingdom of hubris and jurisdiction, as
mine shall be to serve and tender. For, one day I shall
rightly inherit that which is mine.
So, don't use me, don't bruise me, nor bring me down whole.
Don't cut me, don't gut me, nor rip out my soul.
For I am Pax. The Kiss of Peace and witness to the Crucifixion.
Forgiver of your sins in the present and yet to come.
You may own the earth, but I await your soul
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2015
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