Poor Sinner

Poor sinner, I—
Sinner full of pride
and glutted on the blood of other men.
Poor sinner, rooted still to the ground
every part of me spun from the soil.
Sin in my hair and in my skin
in my teeth and in my tongue.
Born in sin and grown on it, sinking
ever deeper to feed further as I open
towards the sky—sin in my eye also.
Should I wonder that the sky is wide and open
and slips through my grasping fingers—
my hands are sins also.

Should I fold them, Lord, and not trouble you?
Shall I take myself back to dust? Unnecessary.
I cannot smudge You, who are untouchable.
Poor sinner, I.
My stains are already turned back in on
themselves. I am trapped and abandoned.
If I would shake the foundations of heaven
my bones quiver.
If I could storm them, I lay waste only
to myself.
When I clench my fist, the air flees
but my palms bleed.