Your Image of Me

Your Image of Me

I know your image of me is what you hoped I’d be.

I never meant to hurt a heart that put such hope in me.

I confess the wrong of living days you are not in mind,

And admit such times will come when I am still unkind.

My worst faults are deep, cold veins of the blackest coal.

To extract them now would carve open wounds into my soul.

So I walk my walk with haunting ghosts of old memories.

I conjure them to understand the pieces of what used to be.

There is a saint to grant all grace you most dearly deserve,

A perfect soul to seek and praise all things he does observe.

With angelic arms he wraps you in a dream caress

As you lay your head upon his sinless pious chest.

His words are balms that soothe and heal life’s deepest scars.

His hands frame your moon-lit face shining among the stars.

But heavenly powers are means of love I cannot possess.

So, defective as I am in form, I must confess.

I may never reach the marks that you have planned for me.

My imperfect love shows stains for all the world to see.