Not the Standard Edition

by David Byron Ratliff

I'm not the standard edition, never measure me so
I have incurable flaws that have marked my brow
like November's rain swept harrowed field, now
cold with mud and watched by the black lonely crow

I love cold hardwood floors, and winter's bitter bite
Bare feet numbed by the snow, then warmed by a fire
I love sharp contrasts, like sweet hot summer's desire
at full height, unexpectedly plunged into an iceberg night

I covet much of my neighbor's, am sorry for it, yet am not
I'm hard to please - yet I need to please others to a fault
I bear intense guilt, but no regrets - my shame finds no halt
My sin continues unabated, but pray for forgiveness - I cannot

I can work like a bull yoked to a plow from dusk to dark
then sit idle and useless for hours on end, daydreaming
I am a hopeless romantic, always musing, wishing, scheming
Searching for that soul mate who will make their mark

I am an idealist yearning for pragmatism, a stargazer
looking for reality in a rose tossed in a wishing well
No saint here - I'm a tarnished angel that will burn in hell
And if God were a lady, my wickedness would not amaze her

I am not the standard edition, but then really - who is?
Who can cast that first stone, sit and judge all my sins?
Whose finger will point at me when Gabriel descends?
I, alone, will come to know the answers to my final quiz.