I have committed my share of sins, most just average
ran-the-stop-sign-when-no-one-was-looking kind of sins.
I’m only human after all. But I’ve done things far worse
when the devil inside stole the keys to my morality
and went for a joyride through the manic world,
speeding and skidding through kaleidoscopic streets
and dimly lit alleyways slippery with alcohol and regret.
Each time my conscience was towed back
with scratched paint, a smoking engine, and shredded tires.
The guilt dented my soul, left me damaged in ways I couldn’t fix.
I wish there were penance enough to salvage grace from the wreckage,
but we all lose value once driven off the lot.