Thirty Plus Year Confession

Cannot remember when.

Confessional, forever lost, in memories.

One confesses within solemn nightmares.

Raw knees, dew wear rash diabetes - below

Blood pressure, do write heartbeats - above

Glucose high low, bear endless prick - test strips.

No confession amidst dye last mourning year,

Probably five, gone onto ten, brings on twenty more.

Pew pleadings that await Hail Mary, Our Fathers.

Deep dye need, amongst confessors, to confess those pleads,

In what lays forgotten amid liar after layer sown pleas.

Will thee list, every little single sin worn torn in mind’s vault?

Does one need days, to list forevermore being time culpable,

Capable of using dam, bitch, those silent mother F’s that slips bye.

But onto eternal virgins, they do curse, every other word worker refrain.

To hear them at work, they are word perfect porn fornicator Christians.

Those who confess Sunday, only to sin Monday through Saturday.

At least, they can repeat weak confessions, recorded weekly hereafter.

Think hard - would, should, could have done that today, after Confessions,

Closes its admittance door that inside a boxed confessional one fears –

A priest say, “When my son has been your last confession?”

Err, father, “I cannot remember, I have Catholic rosary rotary amnesia.”

Or, It has been more than ten years, going beyond twenty, closer to thirty or more.”

Finally, “Can I say yesterday, then say extra ten Hail Mary’s and ten Our Fathers’.”

One ponders and awaits -

Waiting For The Door To Open

But will it open, to let you in?
To the other side?