Oblivion treads many strides
Before the footprint etches in
The lawn. Too late for a protest
To fall gently on a delicate chest.
Across the field the guilt glides.
And then I excel at naming sin,
Thundering, to list them is to win.
Self-perdition I grant best.
I withhold any gracious sides.
My mind can wield its own crosier.
Absolution in familiar skies,
Thought out clean like splintered glass,
Crew cut on some dirt-baked grass,
Maybe given too much exposure.
But even I tell myself some lies,
Which but discourse can vaporize.
Before forgiveness comes to pass,
Rain always giveth closure.
Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre
