The thirteenth day, time to face the world.

No it isn’t a Friday and I’m certainly not a creep,

though my scar hiding sleeves are proudly unfurled.

Thirteen weeks, a whole season of self-chastisement.

I’m not an angel, just wearing Moses’ grey beard,

dividing the devils' exhibitionism from hounest embarrassment.

  

Occupation of the space between the boundaries.

Responsible for slaughtering an innocent calf,

to feed myself with bread, butter, and cheese. 

I’m not a weirdo, maybe just considered slightly odd.

Connecting hidden pieces outside the puzzle,

within thirteen lines of a non-religious mind cracking 

search that is, like an emotional iceberg, slowly thawed.

*****