Though fearfully and wonderfully made,
There are abscesses where my dirt is stored:
See here, the time I learnt to cry, to wade
In mud and mire, and hurt of my own accord.
Though Grace has breathed its breath in me, I still
Retain the sick fruit of Adam’s broken soil;
In pain, in guilt, in deeds of death I till
What many days will buckle at my toil.
Distorted are the instincts of my breath;
Upended are the ways I read my years.
Reorder, Grace, and open up what death
Has stultified, now brackish from these tears.
Take heart, poor soul; the future comes in flood,
Revivifies the past with mercy’s blood.
The Consolations of Writing 
Incredible piece. I’ve not seen your level of talent in the blogosphere before.
Thanks so much. Very kind words. I’m glad you liked it!