The Devil's In My Soul

Not my favorite, but something I felt needed to be written.

God may be in my heart,

but the devil’s in my soul,

prying loose my hinges

with lecherous fingers.

 

My mind is weak with wear;

its use was not my own.

My will is under duress,

my drive plagued by lethargy.

Blame for this, I owe myself--

Sloth entertained in quiet

By passive assent.

 

My hands are calloused from strain,

pawns of arbitrary bidding.

From cracked, irreverent lips

hot breath dissolved my tears,

leaving sockets in my head

home to dry, unseeing eyes.

 

I do feel alone, but

he has not the grace to leave.

I am robbed

even of my own desolation.