Unwell and Contempt

I’m sorry –
I’m sorry I was hurt
By Satan herself,
Her taint still
Fresh on Winter’s lips.

Still tart –
With the scent
Of the Atheist;
Fresh on my mind –
Still weighing on these hips.

I can’t stress
The times I figure even –
The feelings with no repress,
I sanctify in Eden.

Loss of no tomorrow;
But what’s to lose
On the brow of the lost?
In the darkness
Sleep finds no loss.

I know you’re waiting;
Wondering if you’re the one –
Only time will unveil,
The fissure’s opening
Of my heart, unwell.

©2004 Joe Jenkins