Confessed

My hour is dark and wrapped in toil;
awaking stark, but soon adorned
in all the tasks my midnight oil
could not a dent or scratch have worn.

This back grows strong with all I hold –
it’s been so long since lighter loads –
but there’s no song where woes are old.
Don’t dwell upon well-travelled roads.

By dusk I rest,
I’m fully dressed,
the day repressed within my chest,
impressed upon the unexpressed
and writhing words I’ve yet confessed.

—
Deliver me to temperance,
and drive this from my skin.
I’ve long lived full of reverence
for those who live in sin.