Soul Condition

This festering disease,
Within my soul,
Gnawing maggots,
And putridity abounds.
Souring soul ichor like cheese,
Tainting heart to black coal,
Wrenching my guts,
Tearing loose guttural sounds.

A symptom of culture,
Teaming with pestilence,
Spilling forth its taint,
In an unceasing flow.
Turning temple into sepulcher,
Shrieked obscenities replace silence,
And calling sinners holy saints,
The symptoms this disease show.

This retched affliction,
Which is but self-imposed,
Warring within every cell,
Every chamber of my heart,
It is a self-wrought diction,
Making permanently reposed,
My spirit since the day I fell,
Willingly upon Temptations dart.

I deserve nothing,
But the sharp stinging,
Following the Ringing,
Of the Reaper’s Swing.
For I slew my heart’s King,
And stripped Him of His ring,
Crowning the very thing,
That can only destruction bring.

But there is a panacea yet,
To douse my affliction,
And cleanse my heart,
That I might continue to be,
For my soul is yet wick and wet,
Fire yet flickering despite condition,
Lend me, Great Physician, your art,
And make me strong and free.