My history is a wretched territory through which I cannot venture,
For it bears testament to all my transgressions against this worldly morality.
My past is a record of all my sins, all my iniquities
That I dare not to look back, lest pangs of guilt arise and seize me.
Despite His sacrifice which has saved all mankind from the chains of sins,
My guilt does not die; this phantom still lingers around — a misery that I cannot surmount.
I pray that divinity can heal me from my injury,
Yet no one responds; He merely looks upon me with apathy.
My ponderous mind is still preoccupied by those times of villainy,
Such that no love, no grace can atone me.
No god can save me.
No deity can set me free from my anxiety.
Hence I turn to time, praying for his healings,
Wishing that his flow can wash away my misdeeds.
Yet my sins have even befouled his stream of cleanness,
Such that my future will forevermore be tainted.
How I deplore my past! How I implore the power of time!
Yet time, alas, will merely perpetuate my remorse.
I’m imprisoned in my ugly history.
I’m a slave to my piteous past.
My heart thirsts for a savior to emancipate,
Yet he has not come to this day.
My fate is sealed; my future fixed —
My perennial wait has deprived me of my faith,
Leaving my heart shattered, my soul astray.
This abyss of guilt, perhaps, has no escape.
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I am a man of moral frailty, an inherent weakness to all mankind. This poem draws inspiration from my reflections on my own past and my own mistakes.