Tongues that writhe like livid serpents
Bred out of decisions both martyrs made.
They’ll each die two deaths: one of lust, one of faith
Full of insipid humanity, blatant frailty.
Pounding each other harder
Hiding behind assertions of freedom
Beating this ageless mare
Mark of post-modern society.
Desensitized to sensing their own soul
That waits just behind confidence
Never exuded thus never exposed.
They’ll expire as monarchs
Of themselves and no others.
Regrets none or no one listens,
Apologies all but no one hears.
Forgiveness is a virtue that died with the romantics.