Sins

I touch the cold stone walls
and sense the heat of the majestic sun beyond,
gifting its awesome love to the fragile earth,
to hungry spring birds which play
in the warm light-falls of the dawn
of day.

I remove my hand, to our darkness,
and I bow my head to consult my cold icon.
It speaks only of selfs.

We have become monks, penitent of nature's rape,
and to the blinding sky-god we pray,
in hope to see the dawn
of day.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.