There will be a time
in your life
when hell cuts you
with its hacksaw,
when every small cell
holding hands to keep you together
will scream.

You will not be judged by
the money in your wallet,
the stains on your shirts
or the booze on your breath.

Your numbers will be tallied
slowly, catholic aerobic slow,
until each facet of your character
is rubbed on the rocks,
the shine wears off
and you are laid
crumbling in hands
too large to hold the dust.

You can no more avoid this
then the sun breaking the clouds
or the sea churning up silt.

At that moment, as you lie
soiled and ghastly on the ground,
quietly and sorely turning
the mirrors in your home,
you attempt to avoid the epiphany

that you are the one doing
it.