Pick a religion, any religion, and I have sinned against it
Sins that have been catalogued, weighed, and indexed
Each sin, a heart pockmarked, flamed, shamed
The universe is voracious, a vast sin-eater
And allowing me to sin more, for its feeding pleasure
No remorse, no heat death, sin without end
My sins are not new nor shiny, and cannot be seen
By more than a select few, sinning with me
A sinful conspiracy, beneath a blind complacency
My sins have claws and fangs, dragon-sized
Trapped in its sinful cage with no means of escape
Scratching the innards of my sinful brain
Sins within sins, nested and hatched
Before I leave, some questionable future sin:
Can one sin in their own personal hell?
Jake Tringali (jakethepoet.wordpress.com) has lived up and down the East Coast, and then up and down the West Coast, and is now back in his home city of Boston. He runs rad restaurants. He thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. He was first published in 2014. Journals include Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and thirty-five other fine periodicals.