Souls, Like magic, Have their dark As well as brighter side. I sit and chafe While attempting To restrain Thoughts useless And unclean. But all the while I know I want to think them. Some are cloaked In beauty; But underneath, Like soiled and stinking Underwear, They leer and peer, Lewd, licentious, Insinuating. Is my impure heart Spattered only out of habit? Or does True, unrepentent evil Lurk and fester There within its chambers? Am I moral (And merely weak?) Or am I not? Is it frustration Which distracts me? Or foulness Innate and obdurate Obscuring my blessedness? I cannot seem to know. Life reveals So very little To those Who search its paths. They who ask Fewer questions, While going about their work And play, Are more often rewarded With answers To life's whys and way.
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