Perhaps I'm a sinner. Perhaps I'm a saint.
Perhaps I'm just lost in a labyrinth of sin,
Looking for a way out - breathless and faint-,
Racing against time, tearing at my skin.
Perhaps I'm a sinner. Perhaps I'm a saint.
Call me whichever: the choice is yours.
I'm not above reproach, nor without a taint.
Fake sanctimony is what the heart abhors.
Each sin is the price I pay for kindness -
Rejected, refused and pushed aside -
An unnecessary kindness for the spineless,
For those, who hail treachery as glorified.
I accept this without much resentment.
To refuse to see this is to deceive myself.
I'm no longer on their goodwill dependent.
Loyalty is something they have misspelt.
Perhaps I am a sinner. Perhaps I am a saint.
The difference is marginal: it is deeply blurred.
My sins and goodness blended under a coat of paint -
Invisible to the eye, as yet undisturbed.
Perhaps I am a sinner. Perhaps I am a saint.
Neither reflects my other, hidden self.
I bathe in my sins for absolution,
When I offer kindness, I'm under no illusions.
Copyright: Nara Hodge 2017
