True Confession

 

Entschuuldigung, she said, which was a lie,

Excuses absent, and not wanting one,

Impenetrable of motive and as stumm

As onyx.  Not a tear or comely dab.

Just Tell me what you want, and I'll decline,

A heavenly bosom heaveless.  One supposed

That angels felt this way when sinners pled

Post-mortem for relief, their ichor still

A differentiation from the dead,

Though God had mercy, theoretically.

Me a culprit?  Well, I guess I am,

But DNA's a bitch, and time will toll.