This little light is not mine.

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

Forgiveness exists so bittersweet to the taste.

Bitter from sinful, blood-soaked stains.

Sweet from a fragile hope gained.

My sins bountiful, subsist.

Your forgiveness, unsurmountable exists,

Only you, my zenith, on the high throne,

Who knows the sound of my dejected, heartsore moans.

You, in your sanctity, forgive the aggregate of my woe.

I behave like Goethe’s Faust,

And I refuse your love.

My faith in divinity wavers like a flame,

And I burn you like a wick.

The candle, my life as I go.

I seek to keep the wick ablaze,

Only to end in a waxy pool, 

I’ll call it shame.