“Among the Swine”

The wind grieved of waste and want.

I kneel among creatures that do not pray,

but minister to my fatigued soul.

Their snouts deep in husks I would readily feed,

if pride didn’t taste worse.

Dung becomes my inheritance now,

a baptism of mud.

Once, I slumbered in silk, robed with dignity in its seams,

now even rags glance away from me.

I toil amongst the distant laughter.

Reminding me of my own, once,

in my father’s hall,

when I thought freedom meant success.

Lo, success meant slavery.

But love remembering.

Even here, amid the filth,

something gentle calls from the mire.

Go home.

So I stand, barefoot in the mud of my repentance,

the swine’s breath followed me,

as I began the treacherous walk,

back to mercy.