I went too far.
Trespassed
a perfidious temple.
Careless;
deceived by lust.
The devil ushered me
to the abyss.
No, stop! Help me!
I was led astray.
I am a disgrace.
Immoral.
A sinner.
Lost even a speck of light
in eternal night.
Reds flooded.
The devil grinned.
Wear this robe, child.
You are the priest
of this damned grounds.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
