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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
