I know the hot coal will

scorch my flesh if I hold it

yet I do anyway for

the inferno from which it

was born is divine.

The holy power of

unquenchable destrution

rushes through my heart

like a mountain brook;

clear and ice cold

a salve to the

parched throat bellowing

for retribution to

those who've slighted me

and forgotten my face.

Forgiveness eludes my grasp

like a frightened mouse

sheathed by the blackness

of the night in whice

the wise owl forgets

for what it hungers.

If I say I'm sorry

will God forgive my transgressions

or smite me down with

the vengeful heart I've

built with stolen gears?

Author's Notes/Comments: 


View mrpoofs's Full Portfolio