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.