By Sarah Sisson
This morning I am wretched
and foul. I have sinned again.
Another chunk of sanity
is found bathing outside in
the expectations of splendor.
My grandiosity is in weathered pain.
I can not open a new vein, no.
I am in a weary wind of indecision.
I can still turn around. But
nothing I have done can I undo.
Shall I take that same beaten
path to a livid me? I want so
very much to say no. There is
the tread, in front of me again,
and the ease that my foot slides
in the print is astonishing. I can
turn, I can not fit that mold if I wish
to continue my present state of serenity.