My sins were as big as houses
And still I asked to be forgiven.
People lived lives in their own houses of sin
And grew gardens in the yards, fruit trees.
My ugliness was clear to me, as clear
As my many sores and scars.
I lived a wounded life.
Life like this requires metaphor
And so a dog cried in the distance.
My misshapen toenails.
A dismal odor of failure.
Even for a thing like me it was too much.
I unbolted and opened the front door,
It had been locked for so very long.
Outside it was a fine day.
Green trees. Flowers. Bird song.
With nowhere at all to go
I began to walk.