Confessed

My hour is dark and wrapped in toil;
awaking stark, but soon adorned
in all the tasks my midnight oil
could not a dent or scratch have worn.

This back grows strong with all I hold –
it’s been so long since lighter loads –
but there’s no song where woes are old.
Don’t dwell upon well-travelled roads.

By dusk I rest,
I’m fully dressed,
the day repressed within my chest,
impressed upon the unexpressed
and writhing words I’ve yet confessed.


Deliver me to temperance,
and drive this from my skin.
I’ve long lived full of reverence
for those who live in sin.

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