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 tae few
Born of tribulation and illumination, trials and life's own teaching, no Scripture or preaching
Imperfection is our quality, our most treasured bastion of humanity
How could our transgressions e'er be forgotten, tae ascend where saints reside?
Gi'me no the path that leads tae veneration or the harp, tae my heathen ways I'll abide
A Rogues poem inspired, and for, Julie, by Joseph Friend. 04/05/'17
