I might have confessed
were it not for the blanket
of second chances,
assumption oiled at the hinges
by forgiveness –
a permanence arriving
to shuttle me beyond
the gates of my first
Suddenly, it’s stage fright
that trumpets me an usher –
it bleeds me
a carpet call of thin red lines
and I tamper with the packaging
of cause and effect –
two quality seals,
the loose embodiment
of error and apology
I might have confessed
were it not for the bible’d cancer
of my second coming
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 April 2018