Rays

These rays--
they burn through
my demeanor
and brighten
what is left
of nothing,
nothing but regret
on burdened shoulders.
And if these rays
do fall on me;
halo upon my deeds,
would they be black
with Apollo's ruling
or white with
my misguided sins? 
Donne savored
his savior--cursed
the paths he misled--
can judging rays
save me, or
do I stay until I end? 

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed