On the quiet,
this cold and misty morning,
grace comes in -
somewhere between sofa and window -
and tells me that I am forgiven.
I know that I am being forgiven
for trying to steal fire from the gods
and spilling my own jar of evils.
Grace sneaks in
on the quiet,
subtle as always;
forgiveness does not come in a blaze of angels.
You are forgiven, and I will be with you always.