Out of the crooked timber laid by man,
No straight foundation may ever be built.
While Reason clinkers on across the span,
The tunes of Sin jaunt forward with a lilt.
To lie, to steal, to feel in ill no guilt,
To follow Peter’s thrice denial there
Before the day of blood through treason spilt;
That is the nat’ral state of man’s affairs.

But Reason also leads us off from err,
For through our wit we find morality.
Despite the bent of man to’ard disrepair,
We can still choose to live in sanctity.

Emotions burked, let this be understood:
There is no better aim than to be good.


Connor Rosemond is an eighteen-year-old poet from North Carolina.

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