I Confess

I confess

To my treacherous heart speeding up its rate at your sight,

To your sweet name slipping off my sinful lips at night.

I blame you not.  The fault is mine, all mine.

Not the temptation, but the tempted is to blame.

My thoughts, my dreams, my words are not the same

Ever since the day I have seen you shine.



To blame you. Could I even think of such a thing?

Would anyone ask of Nature to call off the spring?

Or condemn the Sun for spreading its glow?

Thus, I cannot accuse you of just being you,

But rather I should bless you, and indeed I do.

My benediction upon you I bestow.



No prayers, no mercy, nothing I request.

Mea culpa, mea culpa dulce est.