Loins, still in the night, quiver ongingly, knowing how it could be
Begging mercifully as dark images frightfully malinger, to record misery
I feel the brush of swift hands that offer to help me pleasurably
Whence they wantonly come--and why--is truly no mystery to me
The miasma of desires, unfulfilled, steals away the very solace of my sleep
I’ve exchanged vows with One who alleviates discomfort for keeps
How could I rise to the pulpit come morn
And tear down the earthly temples of porn?
I rise, take a cold shower, then fall to my knees:
“Give me strength to preserver . . . help me Lord . . . please.”