The
Horrors of Sin
By Ian Stevens
Waking up, trapped inside this
black reality,
with the horrid sins corroding
my soul.
The perception of hope destroyed
by chaos and tyranny;
the heart of obsidian, black as
coal.
A single, cold sin lying across
my chest,
heavy as lead and burning in
pain now.
I ask for forgiveness yet it
stays tainted at best;
in the end I wonder “God,
where art thou?”
Sometimes the crime haunts so
much I scream,
and even when my lungs burst,
the taunting remains.
No amount of pain distracts
this, with me in hell I dream;
nothing becomes of this so all
left is my blood stained.
I lash out punches at the stone
wall with my fists,
thinking only of myself when my
knuckles bleed of anger.
After I have some crazy notion
that cutting my wrists,
will help flood out his crime
and send the reaper, death's angel.
I watch the crimson blood gush
from my veins,
wishing that black cold sin
would go away;
in a world where a heart of
darkness and bad deeds reign
and all hope of a truly happy
life is slain.
It seems no matter what I do,
no amount of blood, repence, nor
pain
shall ever remove the tainting
crimes askew;
I shall lurk in these horrors of
sin.