the model of a confessional

The guilt or pain,
I associate nothing without.
But if I were of a tougher skin,
what might I bare me witness?
Thoughts of purity seeking wisdom sought!
Self-knowledge.
Happiness.
Belonging in this world of what it is.
I can attribute the best in such a fine that I pay.
But not to confess,
I am the vessel
of repentence.
Certainly I repent.
I must obey.
That truth of myself matters.
And only I can exhibit the scenery of life.
This freedom of my very own;
very personal:
conscience.
And what if I were not to be allowed,
telling such rabbit tales of old -
lies.
Only lies.
Such contempt in the context of content I find.
That no leader - or melancholy found cured.
The largest of giants.
For the beauty of my soul will never end.
But I can carry the model of an angels wings
- on my back.
For the world to see me drying my tears.