Picking Up My Red Sponge

I take no comfort
or solace from my room.
It reeks of idleness.

Blotches of dirt
on the cream walls
reflect that
I am also filthy and stained.

Picking up my red sponge,
I realise that
Jesus can only cleanse so much of my soul.
The rest is up to me.

First, I must sleep though.
To bathe in the stars of the evening,
then wallow in waste
straight through to the reckoning of dawn,
in the eyes of the saved,
this act is folly.

A poem by Tomas Bird