The Eighth Sin
From the depths of despair, I vent my wrath
As it feeds healthily on my savage sin
Neither am I glutton nor a sloth
To endure this plethora of piercing pins.
While lust is for the immature and imbecile
I craved for your heart and soul.
My anger and greed burned on
The relentless march of time for
Not stitching us together enough.
The earthly distance grew unmercifully longer
My hearty endearment suffused unfathomably fonder.
In all of life's walks and jots
You completed me that I am not.
I pride myself on the enviable treasure in you
Until I set my love upon a precipice
And fell with it into an abyss.
Battered and ravaged, Besotted and parched
But, I hope against hope
To climb the heights of Hope.
Topic of this poem: Love
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Eighth Sin by Sri Ram )
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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