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.
