My moral accounts are logged,
keeping track of all the good deeds i do,
and should my public image be shaken,
how strong are my efforts to prove my wholesome stuff–
i even confess to display my love,
a profession to shine my image up.
Let my audience chuckle at my silly antics,
superstitious do-gooding,
for as soon as i’ve built a credit in the bank,
my self-judged low desires are apparently permitted–
even to turn away from love,
even to throw away the best thing in the world.
This evil game i play,
such a dark sport that runs quick in the shadows,
and here i am furiously rubbing sticks together for sparks,
that with my fires lit,
torch burning,
i ponder this paradox–
such awareness my forgiveness seed,
to grow acceptance,
the birth of compassion.
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