Messages from My Soul

Pardon!

PARDON!

Pardon me, my dear friend,

For this horrible form of mine.

I lack the exquisite patterns

Of the butterflies upon the flowers

Savoring its virgin nectar.

I lack the effortless skill

Of the crickets in lush fields of grain

Who lends their music to the dreary quiet.

I lack the tiny flick'ring torches

Of the fireflies in a summer night

That adorn the mystifying darkness.

For what am I? A mere pest.

Disgusting, useless, filthy, worthless--

That is how I look.

You find me in the alleys

Of the dearth civilization leaves behind

In its march, feeding upon whatever

Waste that we find.

Is it my sin, dear friend, is it my error,

Is it my guilt to strive to live?

Whom of the creatures all

Desired to be despised and detested?

But this is how nature wanted me.

Some think I am but a flaw,

A mistake of creation,

And I understand.

Why, am I not ugly?

Am I not an insult to the rose

When I alight upon its petals?

Am I not one of the causes

Of the pestilences that vex men?

I am, and that is why I am hated.

But before you judge me

By my surface connotation,

Why do not you all look within

Your e'er exalted selves?

Your motives and base desires

Are no fairer than my filthiness,

No matter how much hypocrisy you put on,

You and your hearts are just as defiled.

So be not flatter'd by your beauty,

O, friend of mine.

Because beneath that lovely crust

THERE LIES FOR SURE A ROTTEN SOUL!