Do you ever tell yourself to count you sins?
To quantify your wrongs, or measure your faults?-
These inevitable faults that makes us human?
These inevitable faults that makes us
Pressured
Malleable and moldable
as freshly dampened sand from the sea?
Our forms are never pre-determined, like a blank canvas or empty slate-
we’re twisted and turned under the cunning, nefarious hands of the world-
vulnerable to the infinite possibilities of its deceit,
tempted by its cool, coquettish smile.
So tell me.
Are your arms and legs painted with brushstrokes,
tally marks of your crimes?
Your mind harboring a sharp, painful clarity which time only abets?
Do tell
what did you lock away behind a set of glistening, snickering,
taunting, yet
tempting
iron bars?