I was very good at saying sorry,
but I always knew that good was not enough.
Over and over, I'm sorry, I'm sorry for
never enough, never sorry enough, and plus,
all these annoying apologies: I'm sorry
for them as well. It was never enough. I wrapped
myself in comfortingly righteous rags;
no hope for enough, but at least it might be more.
No more. I have heard the creaking of stones, and the voice
from the cleft of the rock, felt the steady rhythmic whoosh
of blood again. The time has come to fold
the swaddling graveclothes neatly in the cave.
My righteousness was shit. True holiness
was pulsing through the mercy I once scorned.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago