it’s
a sin to mention it. most exchange thoughts around it. because it’s plane
inhuman. but loving you or tugging you such sweet memories. the sin of agony or
the doors to ecstasy so much our endless ink. I haven’t said it. it’s too much
of a sin. whereas, I must say it, I must! indeed, I shall not utter against
sheer thinning skin: darker rings, filthy toilets, or spigots of blood: our
nightmare city, our rebuking graves, or a life indebted to indelicacy. it will
not yield it becomes caves or cages it seems so sinless; our jealous eyes, our
torturous throats, our lungs by fiberglass; trenchant shards or certain reality
where it must not be sin. “I have come to you, fair in your reply, so bothered
by each propositional sin; our souls poked or pitched into lakes or lava; our
laughs at sanity our pictures slanting our judgment scraping at honesty; to
have dungeons or insanity while convinced of sin—or to ripen trespass filled
with grayness while it’s never to be spoken.” whereto, our reviewed souls our
unsatisfied souls such desperation requiring renewal; to put something off,
where years grow increasingly, then to need those forfeited opportunities; our delivered
deserts so pleased to meet life or showered but uneasy with baptism. it’s a sin
to mention it. it’s drastic to ignore it. it lives to breed. it dies to
recreate. it’s endless, excruciating sin.
