Sin

Lo, do I grasp with my wretched fingers, Onto where my heart it still lingers, Tendrils hold as though a parasite, With it's life causes my blight, Even withered it does not die, For its mother hears its cry, Nurturing back to good health, Yet it is I who have dealth, Suttle thoughts fuel the proliferation, Making death its instrumentation, Rest from it comes with the welcome of dirt, To a place where the heart shall not hurt.

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Alesia Leach

Date: 5/31/2025 5:17:00 PM

Garrett, this is beautifully grim--like a confession spoken through candle smoke. “Tendrils hold as though a parasite” is such a vivid, unsettling image, and the way sin is treated as something both nurtured and endured feels deeply poetic. There’s a tragic elegance in the rhyme, especially that closing line--“where the heart shall not hurt.” Haunting and powerful work.