Loathsome Deeds and Fleshly Needs
Night grows silent, nary a sound
The best time to write, I have found,
to compose poetic impressions.
Pages in leather tomes, they're bound.
Lines of repentant expressions,
attesting to indiscretions
and the sorrow they did impart.
Each verse filled with my confessions.
Nib of my pen hurled as a dart
at its target, my wounded heart.
With self-inflicted pain it bleeds
Torn into pieces, ripped apart.
Repentant for the loathsome deeds,
the temptation of fleshly needs.
I beg forgiveness for my sin.
My poetry sorely concedes.
There is no other grief akin
to the ache I feel deep within.
If there's a way to right my wrong,
please tell me. How do I begin?
May 26th, 2022
Rubaiyat Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Copyright © Jenna Logan | Year Posted 2022
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