Sins have a nasty way of carrying themselves on my shoulders; they

mingle in the strain of my conversations, ducking in and out of a

certain phrase, and that phrase becomes just another facet for their

part in the wrong I have done. Does it translate well, this burden I

have not accepted, into the ears of those listening? From what am I

translating, and more importantly, from where does it inform that I

alone should be the messenger and the one from whom the

message was sent? I impart the secret to others, who in turn confide

in me their own disguised missives, their own particular variations.

The feeling is debilitating and majestic, like a monarchy in its final

clinging to respectability. The feeling lives in the skin, and

sometimes on the skin; the fiber of its nest is a self-sustaining guilt,

yet it layers much deeper, for when the body goes, the guilt stays

behind in remembrance of its infliction: it is the bestial catholic way,

leaving me with the notion that I am a wounded monk weaving some

pages together (for my hands are merely bookends) and my eyes are

closed to protect from the ravishing glare. When I step outside

sunshine will greet me. I will be a little more than what I am.

Copyright ? 2007 Michael Peck

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