A thick shell of mud coats my helm of gold

My wineskin is cracking, brittle and old.

My cloak, where not patched with some newer cloth,

Has gone white to gray and shows signs of moth.

My hide once washed clean, is now splotched with mud

And manure and urine and puss mixed with blood.

Scrapes mark my skin in every direction

Most of them stink with leavened infection.

I wonder if I can be clean again

If I can be raised from where I descend

And if I can, how long will it last

‘Fore I get dirty reliving my past

To ask to be washed again seems too bold

But what other hope do I have to hold?

2/5/03

Benjamin J. Cline