I have roots for a mane, 
So unruly, not the best lion-tamer could tame,

The shadows on my face the only things visible,
My eyes, mouth, and nose invisible,

The outline of my head is faded,
As I stand in a field of white, jaded,

Staring sightless down below, into a pond,
Squated down at its bank, staring at something of which I cannot be fond,

However... I notice, that, from my collar,
Sprouts an unnamed flower of a most fantastic color,

Bold and courageous, holding its pedals aloft,
Its inner flesh pink and soft,

Drawn into my flesh,
Similar to a Scarlet Letter, seared fresh,

Yet somehow alive and waving in the wind;
By seeing myself... have I sinned?