Envious of infant innocence,
The company of sinners over saints,
I lost the friend who died at my expense,
Who with His Blood every sunset paints.
'The world's highs cannot beat Heaven's lows, '
He whispers to me as I run from Him,
Suffering the devil's vengeful blows,
Attended by His weeping seraphim.
He reaches to me, yet I spurn His touch!
Aware that I am wonderfully made,
He can never have loved me too much,
So spurning His love should make me afraid.
Anyone who suffers from addiction
Asks if it is really His affliction.
Luc Leclaire's Other Poems
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