Stains

They´re on your knees when you kneel invain.
On your clothes, your cup trembles insane.
Like paint, like ink, for your masterpiece.
Your purpose stolen, life´s an accident, a merciful morsel or an indulgent feast.
Fresh stains huddle to your garments. Bordering on art, but you haven´t the courage to wear them. Cause all the critics and their comments grab you, you fear them.
Naked on your way to the river to clean them, stained are your feet from the grass. The soap calms you, as you tremble moan and fuss.
As you clean yourself in the immaculate water, there´s a spot on your leg that wont rub out. A birth mark as a patch a stain even.
A smile hits your worried lips and you can feel your shame leaving.
Few things of this world return to the dust unstained.