I gather, I am too deep in my alleged, societal sin,

but perhaps like Cassandra I should accept my fate with a stoic grin.

I am surrounded by the walls of this daunting, unbargained bin;

but is it all merely the doing of some new jacked gin?

Why does this ‘sin’ lead down to the murky path of confusion?

Like Montaigne I cannot seem to come up with a deciding conclusion.

Is it possible that love could have a form of perversion,

but why does this not lead me to Augustine’s path to conversion.

Perhaps, I so foolishly place my eternal life on one roll of a die,

and I fear that it will be too late, and another chance I can’t buy.

I grow nervous with each day, as the end draws nigh,

I must conserve my hope, as I look for help upon high.

I am suffocating in this huge gas chamber-like prison,

where there seems to be no choice for me, no free will, no decision.

I order my steps to escape like a chess-master with great precision,

but my attempts to escape are in vain, and quickly I am forced into submission.

The Burning Bush sent a faceless Beauty to break our chains that bind,

it was too late for me, Beauty saw to it that prison was my state of mind.

Beauty reluctantly had to run and leave me way behind,

then the deal was seemingly done, my soul then resigned.

Submit, Be Docile! In the cold, loneliness of lethargy my being drowns,

it is possible that when I reach the bottom, I will be pulled to the fiery underground.

Of course, I am afraid, you have discovered nothing that is particularly profound,

for I know that I am way....way too deep, my soul is bound.