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.

8/17/76

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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