like soot
blackens
a fireplace,
street grime
slushes snow,
seeds riddle
soft, ripe fruit,
hulls wedge
under gums,
rabid dog bites
master’s hand,
this all too
human heart
pumps pride,
beats self-interest,
harbors hypocrisy;
deceived to not
realize own guilt
of high treason
against perfect
law of love, and
its gracious author.
_________
The dirty little secret we don’t like to speak of is “sin” (whispered hiss).
a poem in my pocket 
Jan 14, 2015 @ 08:45:49
So true, Lynn. But from your other posts, I am guessing that you also believe in the power of love to burst the chains of illusion and to embrace the gracious author. Sometimes, at least.
Jan 14, 2015 @ 09:00:42
Absolutely! I know the author…and he loves me. Thanks for your comment 🙂