A Mortal Toll

My soul’s confession knows no ordinary penance—nor knows, nor feels, another mind the nebulating sorrows therein maligned—. I doubt my own can judge the cemetery of bygone thoughts, dead dreams, and funerary pathways—twisted in patterns twice entwined through one and another—lurking behind my steeple-belled conscience. On the contrary, sermon is held just out of sight of that sinister scene. By holy spirits spurred, and righteous indignations, high exactions, my preaching psyche’s overzealous word inflames my anxious system’s charged reactions— Leave it to the black cat to catch the rat.