The Lost Soul

In the beginning

Sinning

Is like touching a live wire.

You know

That you mustn’t go

There But desire

Twitches

And reputation, riches,

Are for a moment forgot

In pleasure’s  hot

Flush

And rush.

 

Later sinning

Becomes habit forming.

The devil is grinning

And there is no chance of reforming.

You fight

At night

Under sweated sheet.

When the morn breaks

The bird takes Flight

Leaving you in defeat.

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