Abide

Wise woman once whispered upon my ears "we are neither saints, nor are we angels"

That whisper resounded, as if n'er had a truer tellin passed lips that spoke only honesty

Indeed there were no marks upon our backs where feathered grace nae ever existed

Our marks instead accumulated on our innermost selves, known to few

Born of tribulation and illumination, trials and life's own teaching,  not Scripture or preaching

Imperfection is our quality,  our most treasured bastion of humanity

How could our transgressions e'er be forgotten, to ascend where saints reside? 

Gi'me no the path that leads  to veneration or the harp, to my heathen ways I'll abide

  A Rogues poem, by Joseph Friend.