Imago

I once imagined I could be a saint

If my religion had those, anyway;

One of those calm, clear souls that artists paint

With golden halos piercing through the gray

Dull sky above them, sinners in their way

Transformed by virtue into holy men,

The ones who awful villains always slay

But still their message lives to spread again.

I thought I might be one of these and then

I looked with honest eyes upon my living:

The manner that I chose, the why and when

Of my ecstatic prayer and deep forgiving

And noticed it was always so self-serving

I was no saint; not even half-deserving.