I could serve hell forever
And it would drain me dry and ask for more. It’s longings are insatiable. Because it doesn’t want the cure. It wants the patch, the poison. It wants me for it’s errand boy, But not to heal, Not to heal. Perhaps that’s why There is a place for such. For sure. And it appears That I am learning late The thing my fathers knew, That hell cannot be reasoned with Or even helped In any consequential way Without contrition.
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