He had a itch,
for less than righteousness.
He had a itch
more vast than one Spirit.
He wanted wrist to tie, and
mouths to cry at him
as they pray to God.
By all means they always did,
and without fail his flesh is debauched within her walls,
draining through them identical to a sewage drain pipe at its core,
utterly coarse and moist and pulsating,
and when he’d done abundantly,
certainly they’d look past his transgressions.
Certainly they would look lovingly under him this time,
and certainly then,
he would be at peace with himself, be satisfied with the last one,
as he reminisced on their graves.
Share This Poem
This Poems Story
This poem was inspired by a issue that is of great importance to me. I wrote this for a writing class and used the format of a poem I liked to write this one. The picture I chose to go with this poem is a piece from the Karen Petty collection.