Without Contrition

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.