A Postmodernism Anachronism
What is this force, theologians name sin?
They say the world winks at it—and grins.
It cuts through the surface, a dorsal fin
But hides underneath, hunting deep within.
My smart phone rings—my identical twin.
I’m a good man and have no stock in sin;
A moral man with no cause for chagrin.
So what is circling under my skin?