Nor is this hell.

Nor am I out of it.

Deadly sins lie about.

Their whereabouts.

Lying unto us all.

At rest.

We pretend to a generosity of spirit,

A narrow soul at best, but trying now 

To rest.

Lucifer's sin was that of pride

Mine was the opposite

Calculating a worth 

Is ill-conceived.

I am rarely 

Living on my knees

As I need and want to do.

Too keen to judge the worth of words,

I cannot estimate the future worth

of  inconceivably terse verse,

bred of a passing madness.

I have learnt to be grateful,

To refuse to count or calculate any more.

I can no longer weigh the consequences

of that solitary accompaniment to breathing

That shadows forth the  music of the years.