Regard your hands with disgust.

Idle, they are the tools of wicked thought…

 

Your mind wanders the contours of things forbidden,

misused, it writes a script for dormant horrors…

 

the seed and the active ingredient repel,

whilst psychopathic imagination permits all…

 

the membrane of restraint is gossamer thin…

a butterfly wing betwixt heaven and hell

between war and peace

 

that moment between the idea and the act,

before a life or the world entire might change…

 

In those quiet spaces of strength or surrender

lives are shaped or destroyed

that know not each other.