He turned his back
on temptation;
he is a good man
and he knew
he didn’t need it.
He was right.

He turned his back
on complications;
he was aware of a purpose
and his eyes admitted
a filtered version
of the world
where purity
shone priceless
and all else are vice,
heavy and auxiliary.

He turned his back
on what would only
weigh him down,
all those plastic bags
with fancy labels on them
and picked a humble cross
tailor-fitted to his
grown man’s shoulders,
perfectly proportional
to his strength,
and dutifully carried it.

I’ve seen him
at his best.
I’m too young
to have witnessed him
evolving and distilling
grainy truths
through his soul;
all I see is a vestige
of what he used to be
before tough lessons
put him on a Potter’s wheel
and pushed the pedal
and put their hands
around him
as he turned,
molding his spirit,
removing him
from the fire
of the kiln
as the work of art
that he is today,
but I see him.

And I go so far
as to presume
I know him enough
to understand why
he would turn his back
on everything
that would keep him back
from the man
he’d resolved to be.
That’s why I forgive him
for turning his back
on me.