Just a Confession Poem, by Poetae Opus, at My poetic side

The atmosphere becomes red when,

I breathe the fragrance,

Of unlawful souls;

Never my body will be the sacrifice,

Of an ungrateful lamb;

Never a tear will be wept,

To appease a thorny rose;

It is said that,

The Glory of Dawn has arisen,

To lift up the spirits,

Whereas the faithful have reached,

Their place,

Among the Chosen One;

In which I'll never dance,

On broken ceiling,

Unless the trees give,

Their last screaming,

Around this town;

I will unsheathe my sword when,

Mocking specters separate,

Madness from Love;

Even between a virtue,

And a weakness;

A temple is willing,

To be born and grow,

Among the sadness.

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