Roses and Weeds

My eyes rest upon gray skies
that mirror my mood.
I hear birds singing outside.
I see the disaster
that I’ve made of my life.
I taste bitter regret
and the blood of my sins.
I feel withdrawn,
a knife in my gut.
If my Gladiolus bulbs
ever come to bloom,
my faith just might return.
For now, I’m a pesky weed
growing amongst the roses,
hindering their beauty,
and drawing attention
to my own deformity.