CONFESSIONS

I am inclined to despair, sobbing in the lap of my maker

A repentant posture bloodied knees rubbed raw

Pleading, as if you might clasp my tiny hands with rusted razors in palm.

I am inclined to despair, flailing before beasts of my own creation.

Catatonic in the path of 7 impending plagues

Plucking fruitless flowers from the scorched grounds of contemplation I walk upon

In the parlor, innocence takes the hand of debauchery

Dancing upon floors of diminished hope,

I look on powerlessly; unable to extinguish this want

The debutant is  burning in paradise

In the forum, the news is delivered

The books containing truths are but ashes blown upon untamed winds

Whispered obscenities now shrill screams

Echoing in the desolation as if to remind me that here I will remain

Inclined to repent,

In the den amongst the remains of murdered love

I am inclined to contemplate

why have I have come to this place of desolation

seeking abundance?

Have i created the void in which obscenities may echo?

Alone now, weeping in the presence of my tormentor, i am inclined to confess

I have burned books containing truth

I have taken the misguiided hand

The seeds of love that I have murdered have sown this decay.

I am inclined to confess: thine own will be done.