Can you call it love that which mercilessly binds
That which breaks spirit with every effort to disentangle the thorny vines
You who eternally rest, you bred ne in lies!
Forgive me. Rather I mistaken for love what God considers vile
"But how could this be, it felt so pure!"
Among saints the devil makes himself demure
"Thinking about her I lose all sense of time"
Precious seconds that go by as purpose so quickly declines!
Oh heavenly father, I have failed you in everything
Yet in indiscipline and lust do I succeed
I beg that you avert your holy eyes from the shame that I bring
I cannot atone, but I can be absolved and freed
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POETRY ; MOUTHPIECE OF ALL
PoetryPoems of the sad, broken, the joyous, the wanderers, and the eternally pondering minds. Everything that so besieged us since the inception of time, is an unwritten poem. Even though dead in the eyes of mankind, poetry can rejuvenate this flourishing...
