04-11-2012, 07:57 AM
Just outside the French windows of consciousness
I talked with my self, as companions often do,
in a voice languid as the maturing grass.
I'd decided I was a villain, and that my soul could not relax
beneath the burden of its mate: each imagined sin.
My self laughed tolerantly, adjusted his cushions,
and said: "your sins are everyone's sins.
You're hated as much as you're loved by mankind.
Don't despair: you're not special."
I smiled then, and fell asleep,
the grass maturing as I snored.
I talked with my self, as companions often do,
in a voice languid as the maturing grass.
I'd decided I was a villain, and that my soul could not relax
beneath the burden of its mate: each imagined sin.
My self laughed tolerantly, adjusted his cushions,
and said: "your sins are everyone's sins.
You're hated as much as you're loved by mankind.
Don't despair: you're not special."
I smiled then, and fell asleep,
the grass maturing as I snored.