Poetry.com

1 38 0

Sin

Date Written: September 30, 2017
Categories:
 

The lashing rain ravages hill and plain,

It knoweth not virtue and sin;

It brings both joy and pain,

It trudges the thin line 'twixt virtue and sin. 

 

Autumn disrobes Nature of its varied hues,

That Spring so blithely distributed;

Autumn hath no other role to choose,

Than shred what beauty Spring contributed.

 

The summer breeze is salubrious,

It knoweth not the pleasure it endows;

Winter wind is too lugubrious,

It hath no panes on its windows.

 

Not like Nature is the human heart,

It likes not broken be, but breaks itself;

It doth both pain and pleasure impart,

It is the monarch unto itself.

 

The catch is to set the bridle,

Harness the tempestuous thoughts;

Alas! ne'er doth the thing stay idle,

Nor knoweth the dolour it wroughts.

 

Fickle is this beating thing, very fickle,

Active and idle at the same time:

At times the proverbial scythe, at times the humble sickle,

Sometimes prosaic, sometimes brimming with rhyme.

 

While carefully tending to my own heart,

As Spring tends to the languid landscape;

I wilfully broke my son's little heart,

E'en as Winter shatters Summer's escape.

 

Not like the faces of Nature is the Human Heart,

Never was, nor never will be;

In impetuosity its own path doth it chart,

A design that e'en the owner can ne'er see.

 

A mistake that ne'er was committed

But imagined to have been committed;

Mired in the passion of it, I omitted

The vision to discount a sin he ne'er committed.

 

I spoke a word and broke his heart,

He shed a tear and broke my heart;

The word and the teardrop both played a part,

The truth: I broke his heart.

 

The spoken word is engraved in memory,

Like the face of Time on the ageless mountain;

Its pain is cast like iron in the memory

Of the innocent heart whence truth springs like a fountain.

 

The tear ran like a line of rainwater on a verdant lane

Down his beautiful cheek, his clear eyes all gone misty and red;

His cheerful face was filled with pain

Not e'en Mozart's Symphony could put him to bed.

 

I did not lie, he said through the wimper of his hurt,

But he said not that he deserved to be pained;

What sin it is to be thoughtless and curt!

I waited as his anguish waned.

 

As he rested his face against my chest,

Having forgiven me my mindless sin;

I let my heart wail in its cavity like a pest.

Repenting both the sinner and the sin.

 

Leave a Reply

Register
Send message