A dwelling.
Spiteful hands over a gift,
Given by blood money.
But he continues to rip the paper
That alarms for its security.
And the sweat that drips from his face
Marks of his wrong doing, and stops.
But the devil on his shoulder -
Namely peer pressure -
Smoulders him to carry on.
A secret is revealed to those;
The ones that aren’t permitted.
The gift that is finally revealed,
Was a Pandora’s box of his riddance.
He stole it.
Yet he knew what it’ll lead to,
And how he will be dealt with,
So he ran from his problems -
With words singing in his head.
Rapturous with criminality,
He was caught without the gift,
And continued to deny his hesitance;
His fault when...
He never mentioned the devils existance.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 795 times
Written on 2006-07-05 at 12:53
Tags Criminality  Moral 
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