My being real is make-shift.
It’s faithless to insist on who I am.
The point of departure is taken for granted–
arrival is certain in its present
state: death as sustenance
or final barrier of a feeble heart.
Oh, I would like to be reborn, turn back
but I cannot. I’ve sinned too many
sins not my own, attributed
a posteriori, missed deceptions.
I’m looking for new loves, violent nights.
I ask forgiveness to those I did not love.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll come to a green
field,—and I’ll no longer be alone.