i pen this,
with concise veracity,
concerning the waywardness
portrayed by our
initially blase, nefarious minds,
from which we derive
our illogical and absurd motives,
being weaved in and out by
a sin nature.
the passageways of mankind's heart
are caliginous in tone,
and no empty plea for forgiveness
can mitigate its hell-birthed essence.
oh dear God, i've become so
apathetic in my intentions,
and all i desire and long for
is the understanding
of my errancy;
but how far in distance
can i excel,
with nothing by the desire,
and longing for?
for what is progress
minus any conduct?
better yet, what is conduct,
minus progress?
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