Dichotomies

I do not see you. I do not admit
That you exist. That’s how it has to be.
Your crime is one my soul could not acquit,
Your sin betrayal in the last degree.
I knew, o well I knew, you were unfit,
Yet somehow loved you to the depth of me;
I’m judged, and to that judgment I submit:
My sentence served, I find I am not free.

The fault is mine. My heart will not permit
My hand to take up Mercy’s proffered key.
And while I live, your fool and hypocrite,
This cage is tribute to what could not be.

The strangled strands my soul cries out to quit
My heart has woven through the whole of me.