gunhead@gunhead
The perfection of self
Woe to my pathetic form,
Woe to being born,
Look not upon the filth I may be,
But what I dearly want you to see.
Oh, if I could grasp the brush of my making,
I’d wrench it from the Lord himself,
tear his fingers, face his wrath,
So be it!
To be created as I am,
is a sin no doubt!
Make me anew, free of flaw!
Bless me, his hair conceived
from the delicate warmth of the sun
His wisdom, his love,
Woe to my pathetic form, a man so pure is false!
Still, how is it that the sorry sin I am
created such an angel?
What, from my aching vain desires?
Say no, it is not so,
that such anguish birthed such beauty?