Concupiscence
And the angel of death walked like a mirror
She wasn't ready
She basked in her sin like a séance
Now time has a sickle
What will be your fate?
Shrouds of conscious imperfection
Hide like dark rats
No olive branch in the dove's beak
Your cinnamon tree shallow as graves
Grand pride motivates concupiscence
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Added by Poetry Lover
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