Fate

We have little control or choice.

The sweet refrain

has no place

in my world.

 

A place soured

by the vitriol

and angst

of brutal

discontent.

 

A place where

soft words

are now harsh

lashes

of the whip.

 

A flailing, scourging

bitter thrash

upon my unprotected

Catholic  skin.

 

There is no calm,

no peace,

no gentle

cooing, sultry

voice

to sooth me,

only the metronome of

the confessional

penance I must

repeat.

 

And thus

I exist

in that damned inferno,

trapped

deep in that

choking cervix

of hell.

 

The cries

of the dead

echo from the walls

of this dungeon,

the blood of

tormented souls

dripping into

the cesspit,

feeding the

rabid black dogs

of Satan.

 

And so

I acquiesce

to my fate,

there is no

way out,

no looking back,

and there is

no second chance.

Author's Note

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

from "Blood on the tracks" his best album in my mind.
This poem is so dark...it is like the speaker can not get away from his conscience...and maybe hopes after death there is nothing but being buried...and turning to dust.
Sometimes we get to feel this...that we have just not lived our lives in a good manner...but i think it often stems from the Catholic background....it's built on Guilt.
j.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

I liked some of his work but was never a fan as such. You have hit the nail on the head again Jacob as this is based on my Catholic upbrining and the way it made one fear damnation. Many thanks.