I chose the glossy finished wood
It seemed like a dime,
From where I stood.
An ounce of forgiveness,
Along with a downpour of the holy river
Has only caused me to be a mess
And a walking wound generator.
Even the banyan tree shakes its head,
And lowers its prop roots further
To say I don’t deserve even a death bed,
Let alone being pardoned by a mother.
Throughout the path,
I subconsciously got tangled in ivy
Assuming I wouldn’t require a calamine bath,
And brush everything off slyly.
Now I sit here by the lake,
All alone on a slimy wooden log
For my own goodness’ sake,
Passing the buck on the fog.
I can easily ask for a third second chance,
And after yet another repeated sigh
I will vow not to call it a happenstance,
But the real doubt is- Will I?
That because counting deeds is a sin
Draining my misdeeds in the sink,
Would mean they’d flow into the mouth of a bin.